


Masks I can't live within (Unmasked)

by 8isgreat



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst and occasional humor and maybe a wee bit of fluff, Character Study, Connor's past, Depressed Annalise, M/M, Post S6
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:30:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25290145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8isgreat/pseuds/8isgreat
Summary: Dear Annalise,I'm leaving, and who knows, you may never see me again. I have words for you. Many. I need to say them.--It's been four years of successes and failures and good times... and toxic-wastedump-of-dysfunction-like times... after Annalise gets Connor out of jail and exposes the corruption that landed him there. Connor comes to the conclusion it is time to leave once and for all. But before he can go, he realizes he has many words he needs to say to Annalise, about his time in the Middleton and as her colleague afterward. He writes a farewell letter to help unravel his conflicting emotions on everything they've been through. He also reveals he knows a dark secret she's harbouring.Guest appearances by chapter: Oliver (1,6,9-15), Michaela (2,9), Laurel (13-15), Wes (4), Asher (2,9), Lanford (11); Connor explores his childhood and how the "mess in his head" is not Annalise's fault in general in 7-8. R-rated chapters: 8-9, 11.
Relationships: Connor Walsh & Annalise Keating (platonic), Oliver Hampton/Connor Walsh
Comments: 36
Kudos: 35





	1. Section I -- THUCK YOU

_**\-----** _

_**| Unmasked |  
** _

_**\-----** _

Annalise glanced at her phone. No new messages. 11:41 PM. She had been in the bathroom no less than an hour and forty six minutes.

It was supposed to have been a five minute break, but no part of Annalise Keating wanted to return to the mayhem that was her office, with all her damn kids arguing over her idiot client's case.

Well, they weren't kids, and certainly not _her_ kids. They were interns, second years at the university. Mr. Walsh was supposed to manage them, but he still had not yet showed up for work.

He hadn't spoken with her since their latest loud office argument two weeks ago. The overgrown brat had thought he had to spend time "being there for her", something dumb like that. He probably thought he still owed her for getting him out of jail, she figured.

What blasphemy. If it weren't for her, he would never have _been_ in jail. Since she had hired him for her 2016 class action, he'd forgotten that she had ruined his life. She had no time for his feel-good trying-to-be-a-good-person crap, but she had tried to do him the favor of setting him straight on the matter anyways. Apparently, though, she didn't have the right to tell him not to waste time, without him ending up screaming at her in the workplace. He never grew up it seemed. What was his problem?

Connor had been showing up late ever since. That meant that all the unending messes the brats seemed to mass produce were going to continue getting dumped on Annalise until he decided to get his act together, and pretend to be professional.

They were each promising students who would one day be great legal minds, but one could easily forget that, given how much they'd remind you of a school bus overstuffed with whining preteens. The little brats also shared Connor's insufferable habit of sticking their noses where they didn't belong, even if they – well, almost always Miss Trung – had rescued at least one case from sure defeat.

In the bathroom, Annalise had finished three bags of chips, a couple alleged shots of alleged vodka, and also the rough draft of her opening statement. She rubbed the old sleeping pill bottle she was using to carry her vitamins. She'd remember to take them later, she figured. She had to get back to work. Before leaving the bathroom, she shoved one of the chip bags into the alleged vodka bottle, placed the bottle into another bag, wrapped the third around it, and buried it deep in the trash.

As she walked down the hall, she heard a series of rapid footsteps in the stairwell she had just passed on her left. And Mr. Hampton's voice, echoing.

Late as always. Annalise smiled. That boy never changed. But for all his lateness and occasional poorly concealed drug use, Oliver always produced results. He was quite possibly the most steady worker of all of Tegan's high-achieving little shithole kingdom called "Caplan & Gold". And it was him who had traced the systems breach two years ago to the computer of the prosecution's second chair in Clifford v. United States. Not that anyone was surprised at that level of professionalism from the administration. She waited outside the doorway. She had a task for him.

"But you went through all that work! The allnighter, rewriting it from scratch four times, making me read them all over-"

The man on the phone must have interrupted him. Annalise couldn't hear the words he was saying, but she easily recognized Connor's voice.

"Okay, okay, you're right, I'll toss it," Oliver was saying. "Gotta go. M'late already. Don't wanna arrive after noon on my last day! Aight, bye Conmor."

That still hadn’t gotten old? Annalise shook her head. She knew where that name came from. It was that one office party, about a and a half year ago, after winning United States v. Clifford. A few days earlier, Mr. Hampton had replied “Btw found new game 2 play for 2night ;)” to an email Connor had sent, before apologizing profusely and a bit amusingly about how deeply, deeply, _deeply_ sorry he was to have missed the line “Cc akeating@middleton.edu”. After rapidly getting more than a bit drunk, Mr. Hampton began repeating his apologies, even more profusely, and rather publicly.

Mr. Walsh had been chatting with the defendant, Ms. Clifford (better known to the public as "Stormy Daniels"), whom he had invited to the party. Seeing what was ensuing, he had set down his drink, and quickly but gingerly glided across the room.

He cut short the conversation by prompting Tegan to again retell the "epic tale" of that one "nearly troll application" C & G had received. That was the one with "02/02/2016" as the date of birth, with notes-to-self including "by 3:00 – rsp to Jeff abt tuition $" and the unforgettable "5:00 – food + Trojans for Asher and Michaela ;)" written in the response boxes, all because a certain "Con _m_ or M. Walsh" had accidentally hit the submit button. Ever since, Oliver had been occasionally calling Connor "Conmor" on the phone or when they thought they were alone, and Connor didn't seem to mind.

Mr. Hampton burst through the door, pushing it open with his back. In his left arm, he was carrying a stack of files. In his right hand, his phone and an envelope with _Annalise_ written in large italic letters. Annalise raised an eyebrow. He tried to drop both the envelope and his cell phone into his laptop case as he opened the door. The phone fell in.

The envelope didn't. Instead it missed, got a bit of wind, and slid along the ground, stopping at Annalise's feet. She picked it up, as Oliver was hastily reassembling the stack of papers he had also managed to lose his grip on.

"Professor Keating!"

She met Mr. Hampton's bloodshot eyes.

"Mr. Hempton," Annalise said with a smile.

Oliver gave her an crooked smile. "I'm a high achiever."

"And a mess," Annalise scoffed. "Need a hand?"

"No, I have to run, but… um… "

Oliver looked at the envelope as he hurriedly retrieved his papers from the ground.

"Whatever nonsense this is, I'm sure it can wait until Connor is satisfied with his fifth draft," Annalise said. "Or fiftieth." She didn't have time for this. She held out the envelope for Oliver.

"No, no," Oliver was saying, pushing it back. "Keep it… Connor wants you to read it. He _needs_ you to read it. And there won't be another."

Annalise scoffed. _Okay then._ In the seven years she had known him, Connor had graciously provided a pretty wide sample of various sorts of bitch boy problems, all of which he had somehow expected her to fix while simultaneously being Martin Luther fucking King, without the part about dying at 39 years old. But she had a feeling that whatever this was, it just might take the cake.

"I would very much like to speak with you too, later today. I have to run to Tegan, but I'd like to give you a proper goodbye as well," Oliver said. "Text me if you find the time."

And with that, he picked up the last of his scattered papers, and scampered off.

A proper goodbye?

Annalise had to get back to work. Her office, she soon found, was a constant and rather deafening headache. Her idiot client, of course, had apparently shot someone a year ago. The witness had only come forward now, but the defendant had confirmed it and said it was be because he had "looked at her like a creepy savage" as he was walking up to her, alone, as she was walking through a neglected part of the city. The man she fatally shot, it turned out, was gay, and a refugee from South Sudan. _Great_. This bitch didn't want a second chance, she wanted to never face consequences, like the spoiled parasite she was. They needed her help, the useless interns were crying. Everyone always needed her "help".

However, she had an urgent phone call to make, she told them. She made her way back to the bathroom, and took out all the pages of Connor's letter.

 _Dear Annalise_ , the letter began.

It was in Connor's handwriting alright, ballpoint pen, written on college-ruled notebook paper. There was a wet spot on the first page. Annalise immediately recognized the scent on it – scotch. Glenfiddich, to be precise. Fresh.

The other pages also had a smell – fairly recently smoked cannabis, but it was much nicer than the skunk Oliver occasionally failed to mask. Annalise also detected an accent of lavender in it. She actually liked it.

At the top of the page, after "Dear Annalise", it said, in large italic letters " _THUCK YOU"._ What on earth? She read on.

\---------

_You will have many questions._

_First – what is all this, why did I write it?_

_Well, I'm leaving, and who knows, you may never see me again. I have words for you. Many. I need to say them._

_Some of this, I've been trying to tell you for years. Some of the rest, I could only finally admit as I forced myself to write this._

_Oliver and I are flying out tomorrow. Oliver wanted to tell everyone, don't blame him. This one time, it was me with the lying and the secrets. Sorry._

_You will ask – am I leaving because of you? You’re mispronouncing it: I’m not leaving because of you, I’m living because of you. You’ll understand what that means when you’re done reading this. _

_Did you ruin my life? Well, yes, a lot of that shit you and ~~Waitlist~~ Wes got me involved in – no, sorry, I also got **myself** involved in – messed me up real bad, to be honest._

_By the way, when I say I am being honest, I intend to be totally, radically, exasperatingly honest. I want to give you what I always craved. I’m even giving you the handwritten form, where I can’t hide all the things I’ve crossed out. Because my total honesty means you can accept the good things I am going to say without reservation. No white lies._

_In order to move on, I have to leave, but also to own my side in all this honestly and completely. No more of our mutual suspecting, projecting, reflecting, protecting, deflecting … and just yelling over each other._

_I know you’re busy. But please, I need you to read it. You’re right, I’m selfish. But my selfish request comes from from me caring about you. Yes, I freaking care about you. Don’t you ever consider that? Have you ever considered that? I don’t like saying it, but judging by what you said two weeks ago, you clearly don’t know it. It’s not some debt, I just care about you. _

_You see Annalise, the truth is that I was a really, really fucked up person long before I met you. You know that. Some of it. Some of it you will never know, because you don’t need to. The rest, I will tell in the pages to come. It’s not your fault, well, mostly not._

_I could have said goodbye in person, I know, I know. But Annalise, whenever we talk, and I mean really_ talk _, half the time we end up yelling at each other. I always end up not saying the things I want to say. There’s so many things I_ didn’t _want to say. I don’t even want to remember saying some of those things to you. I’m sorry, really. Maybe that’s part of why I need to say all this now. So you know the whole story. Because you deserve to know._

_I need that chance to confess and unmask… everything, because you have a right to know._

_This is my last “bitch boy problem” for you. Just hear me out._

Annalise let out a sigh.

_You knew my cringe-fest admissions essay was a lie. Being part of your stupid “Keating 5” gang fucked me up in new and actually objectively fascinating ways, yes, but you also helped me find myself in the wreckage. And beforehand, the truth is that I was just driving full speed ahead in life, not realizing where I was going. I hadn’t yet learned to even look in the rear-view mirror._

_It felt awful. But, um, thanks, you bitch. You know I mean that in the best way possible. I wear my_ _B_ _itch_ _B_ _oy_ _B_ _adge_ _®_ _with pride._

Annalise swore she must have rolled her eyes out of her head. Clearly, Connor’s sense of humor declined rapidly as he ingested marijuana. But she was smiling.

 _I’m not going to try to_ _sound nice._ _That_ _is my honesty. No lies, no eloquence, no acting, just_ _the_ _truth._

 _(_ _by the way, I know you are wondering – why do these papers smell_ _like that substance forensic reports_ _c_ _all “cannabis_ _indica_ _”_ _?_ _You’_ _re also wondering: why does this_ _also_ _smell so_ _much better than that_ _fucking_ _truck diesel Oliver_ _somehow_ _inhales_ _?_

 _That’s because_ _I_ _have_ _actual_ _taste,_ _since way back when I_ _samp_ _led_ _the strains with my_ _mom_ _as a teen_ _._ _Why do you smell it_ _on this letter_ _though? Honesty: it was_ _necessary to get myself to actually write this,_ _it makes me feel detached_ _._ _If you think it’s kind of fucked up I can’t do that sober, well, you’re right._ _Also honesty: if you ever t_ _ry_ _the devil’s lettuce, do choose the stuff that smells like this –_ _that lavender scent is something called linalool_ _, which is_ _safer_ _for… people like_ _us two_ _._ _No panic attacks._ _)_

Of course, Annalise reckoned, Connor would prefer this… strain? Strand? Whatever. It almost smelled like that cologne he wore now and then.

Or was it the same smell all along? Had she mistaken Connor's weed for cologne? Annalise shook her head and chuckled. Connor really had never learned to give his all to his career, she thought, as she thoughtlessly fingered another water bottle in her coat pocket with alleged vodka in it, the last one she had allegedly snuck in for the day.

_Whatever it was that we had, it was really fucked up, but it was also love. I fucking hate writing that, it feels so pathetic and mushy and clingy, but I need to, so I wrote it, I underlined it, because honesty._

_Both of us, we always try to make sense of something, to put it in a nice little box. This helps on tests, but not for things that you can’t get a textbook definition for._

_What do I mean? I'm gay, you'd never forget. So did I love you like you were my mom? In some ways. Not the important ones. Like you, my mom would hit the club with me, commiserate over that worthless father, how worthless straight men are. You are the only two people that are chill chatting with me abt men & their penises, and how the different sorts look & feel & taste. So in that sense I guess you were like a mom, because that's what a mother is to me. _

_By the way, I'm going to miss those spicy convos. Phallus taxonomy makes for awful conversation with Oliver, thanks to his mathematically false self-esteem issues, his bizarre inability to believe me when I say his is practically perfect. Yeah, mathematically false, because I had all the stars in the sky to choose from, but I chose him, again and again. Simple math: he must be worth more than the chance to ever have any of the rest of them, and we all know I loved boning them all. I'm telling you this because you have the same crap he does , and it's mathematically false for you too. Nate chose you despite all you put him through, so did Eve, so did that weirdo trekkie guy from the incel case (you can do better), so did Tegan, because you're you. 100% honesty, sis._

_Unlike my mom, you were also my friend. I know you won’t believe me, but I’ll miss spending time with you. It wasn’t about you listening to my bitch boy problems, though really only you really get me. When you’re not being a badass, you’re also pretty fun. That’s the truth._

_You were also like a dad. Not because you are a dishonest cheater although, yes, despite your bizarre self-esteem baggage, I know and do not approve (but there is hope for you, unlike some)._

_No, you're like a dad because you're an effing badass that I wanted to be. If I was a girl, you'd be like a mother for the same reason. When people ask me about you, I say you're a genius and a beast. I told Oli once, you're Diana fucking Prince. Or maybe it's Wonder Woman who is like Annalise fucking Keating._

_You're also this fascinating person. Sometimes you're surreal, like maybe you're fiction – probably in a legal drama, maybe with some obscure filler episode about how you stopped the self-obsessed prettyboy who chopped up your dead husband from offing himself, the backstory for how you met the assistant in you two effing Supreme Court wins. And now, you've already defeated the FBI twice, plus a governor and now a presidential administration (okay, an inept one, sure, but I know you're not finished wiping the floor with them). But that person is not only real, it's you!_

_You were someone I looked up to, who made me think I could be great but also be me. Even when I didn’t trust you one bit, even when you were kinda cray, maybe a bit evil. You’re a genius, but as we both know, we’re similar in many ways. _

_I no longer want to be great – at least not like I once did, not in the way that once made me look up to you… and made me want to be like you._

_But even though I will always admire you, now I want to be like me. That is why I am leaving, to live a life that is my own. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished, but I never thought I (of all people!) would be complaining about the number of nudes I receive in my professional inbox, and that’s the least of the issues. I can’t stand all these eyes on me, all the time, probing, delving into me, when I don’t even see them. I don’t know how you do it. And I can’t stand all these reminders of what happened before, or the nagging thought about all the collateral my actions could have if I trip up for a second. I don’t know how you do it. But I can’t. _

_But I do not regret it. Sure, I had the most miserable time in my life working for you, but also the happiest times of my life. You still don't believe me. Just take it for what it is: the truth._

Just then, Annalise remembered to take her vitamins. She retrieved the pocket-sized sleeping pill bottle she had been carrying them in, and shoved two into her mouth, got up from her stall, and tossed the bottle into the trash. Vitamins canceled out the potato chips, right? She reluctantly returned to reading Connor's crap.

 _I don’t know what the_ _fuck_ _I was to you or if I even_ _mattered_ _to you, and the truth is, that question, burning in my mind, was 50% of why I would end up yelling at you. And I couldn’t stand all the lies and secrets because you keeping me out made me feel vulnerable and abandoned in a way I could not stand the reasons for. I couldn’t admit this to myself:_ _I loved_ _you._ _I didn't want to, I didn't want to care about you and need you and look up to you, and I absolutely hated wanting to trust your lying ass, but too bad, I just did, and I had no choice in the matter._

 _At this point_ ~~_I don’t care what I was to you anymore_ ~~

_no, that's a lie, I still really, really wish I mattered to you (I fucking hate writing that). But I can accept it if I didn't. You had a lot on your plate, always. Even lopsided love is still love, I still grew from ~~the experience~~ it._

More scribbled out text. Annalise wiped her eye with the page, it felt a bit wet for some reason. Then she found the next legible text after the scribbles and continued.

_And that’s because my “love” for you… whatever the fuck it is or was… because, let’s be real, nature does not organize itself into nice little freaking pigeonholed boxes so we can understand it, it just exists, and it’s only us who pointlessly try to make sense of the senseless… _

_that love made me grow. I had thought I was this liberated guy, loud, proud, but I was wearing a mask every day. I was putting on so I could tolerate looking in the mirror. You (violently) ripped off that mask off, and forced me to admit I had been wearing it. It really fucking hurt – ~~fuck you~~ ~~thank you~~ , ~~but also fuck you~~ okay we don’t have a word for “fuck you but also thank you”, but necessity is the mother of invention: **THUCK YOU.**_

_It was also a mask I couldn’t live within. I know how to live a life that is my own, because I met you. I wasn’t really living before. So thuck you, ~~I~~ ~~kind of~~ ~~hate you~~_

Annalise skipped past more scribbled out text.

_I don’t hate you, that’s not really the truth, I never meant that any of the thousand times I said that. Honesty though: there were times I had a lot, a lot, of angry words for you, so I sure felt like it._

_But also, thank you so much._

_There’s another reason I wrote this letter, that I didn’t mention. You gave me the idea. Back in spring 2016, when you fired me, at that restaurant. I ordered lamb. Asher ordered steak. Remember? I kept a copy. Your recommendation letter that I was supposed to not look at and submit for the job fare? I would read it to myself whenever… you know. I ripped it to shreds after you went MIA when I got arrested for Asher, but I still remember what it said._

_You may suspect there is another reason I wrote all of this. Yes, I know what you’re up to. It won’t work. I’ll get to that later. Give me the time. Read this start to finish. Please. That’s my final “bitch boy” request to you. Honor it._

Annalise turned the page. The title said "You didn't choose me, but I chose to come to you". Annalise sighed. This was going to be long. She flipped through the other pages. There were other "titles" too, including "Thalassa is okay" (what? Maybe Connor had been smoking a bit too much...), " ~~Actors~~ Whence comes the mask", "I told Lanford", "I told Tegan", and lastly "I know what you're trying to". Trying to… what? Then she noticed one last title, "Non est tibi liberum arbitrium". Annalise had seen Connor's crazy, but this was indeed taking that cake.

Annalise got the sense that this was going to become less and less coherent as she got deeper into it. And she was supposed to read it all?! Meanwhile, she knew the interns would be carpet bombing what was left of her case. She glanced fearfully at the title "I told Tegan", then shoved it back into the pile. She didn't have time for this. She had a case to rescue.

Annalise heard the interns arguing outside the bathroom door. She put on headphones, and found herself reading where she had left off, for some reason. She had nothing better to do after all.


	2. Interlude I: That bitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally going to be a standalone, but I realized I needed it as part of Unmasked to explain how Connor got into his present employment situation. And I thought it worked well as an "interlude". I might split it off again though, who knows -- if you have thoughts on that, I'd love to hear them. Or any other thoughts you had. Thanks for reading!

_Thirteen days ago_

“And it’s painfully obvious he’s head _well_ over heels into me,” Michaela was explaining as she drove along the New Jersey Turnpike, “but I’m just not feeling it.”

They were driving from Michaela's fancy new place in New York City back to Connor's in Philadelphia. They had crashed at hers yesterday. But the fun was to be at his.

“ _Right.”_ Connor, sitting shotgun, cocked his head and narrowed his eyes as he turned to look at her. “You’re not _feeling it_ ,” he said sideways as he slid into a smirk. “You’re just _feeling_ like having at _least_ three of his beautiful babies.”

“I am _not_ ,” Michaela protested. “Were you even listening? Half his insta is his _motorcycle.”_

Oh, Connor had been listening. He turned back to the road. “’Cuz you stalked him,” he sang, his smirk spreading into wolfish grin. “And did he respond to your Facebook request? Or was it LinkedIn?”

Connor stole a glance. Michaela’s grip on the steering wheel had tightened noticeably. Lips pursed shut. Connor licked his canines behind his cheeks. Delicious. He’d missed her.

“Ah, I see,” Connor exacted, “ _both_. And he responded to…?”

Michaela opened her mouth to say nothing.

Neither, of course. Whenever this unworthy loser had been eyeing Michaela, she’d probably been staring first. Maybe this was a little mean, but maybe that was half the fun.

But she needed help.

“You know Michaela,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially, “you’re too much of a _winner_ to keep playing for the _losing_ team.”

“What,” Michaela stammered, “do you mean?”

“You can’t beat us, so _join_ us. Your taste in men is… how to put it… _Chef Boyardee_. Ever tried the fairer sex?”

“Have you?”

“Empirically proven fact: I’m as straight as Annalise’s natural hair. I’m immune to poison ivy and also girls,” Connor reported. “She used to wear that wig, you know, but she’s moved on. You, though… you straighten your hair, don’t you?”

“What are you getting at?” Michaela demanded, exquisitely irritated… though Connor wondered if maybe the hair comment was insensitive. _I should probably look that one up_ _on my own time_ , he figured… but he’d probably forget. _Oh well, I’ve_ _probably_ _said much_ _worse anyways._ Some excuse. Hopefully Michaela didn’t give a crap.

“Don’t forget,” she continued, “I put my _blossoming_ career on hold because after four years, you ‘urgently’ needed to ‘hang’.”

He was glad she had. Some things were best forgotten, but still, he’d really missed her.

When something in the “not so fun” category for Connor had happened, it had been Michaela’s couch he would go cry on, and she knew not to pry. Oliver being a dick, his ‘dad’ Jeff being a dick, just chemicals in his head being a dick, it had never mattered.

It had been the same couch, same as always, yesterday. Today, they _urgently_ needed to go clubbing in Philadelphia. It was a mission, of course. Of course Michaela had a case the next day, but she had caved, as he knew she would. She was a good friend.

And probably amply prepared anyways. In spite of everything they’d been through, Michaela had never lost her sense of … savage responsibility. Connor could not say the same, he often found himself out of fucks to give. He admired her for it. Maybe one day he’d remember how to work like she did, like he used to.

“Hey,” Connor said, “it’s just that a day-time boss like you deserves equally fruitful success at night.”

He elbowed her playfully. Michaela grinned in spite of herself.

“And,” he explained, “you and Laurel when we were 1Ls? I totally shipped it. What do we call it, ‘Lichaela’?” He flicked his tongue as he articulated “lick”-chaela. “ _Hot_.”

“Oh, _shut up!_ ” said Michaela between laughs. _Horrible pun. Dad humor, i_ _f_ _12 year old_ _s had kids_ _._ _Of course Michaela_ _preeshed_. Connor could say anything, and she’d laugh if she was supposed to. He’d missed her.

 _Or was that pun… Asher’_ _s_ _humor?_ Asher’s voice echoed in Connor’s head, saying it “lick-chaela” just as Connor had. Oh, wait, Asher _had_ said that.

Traffic. Michaela focused her attention back on the road. She tended to win in traffic, just like most other aspects of her life. Arriving early was like extra credit on a test.

The memory of when Asher had said that was coming back to Connor. Spring semester of 2015. Before Asher’s dad had died. But right after Bonnie had broken up with him.

“C-dawg,” Asher had said. after unilaterally deciding they would walk back from class together. “Do you think I could get with Michaela? Real ten out of ten, I’d hit dat ass again, and again, and A-gain.”

Connor had rolled his eyes. “Would _she_ hit _you_ ‘again and A-gain’?”

Then, Asher had made some stupid BDSM joke which somehow transitioned into his unsolicited fantasy about Laurel being “freaky” in bed, involving some quote from that Rihanna/Britney song in relation to her and Michaela.

He had then dubbed the “shipping” “ _lick-chaela”_ , flicking his tongue and using exact same tone Connor was just using at present in the car. Maybe _that_ was what they all were hiding from him, Asher had wondered aloud. Back then, he still didn’t know about Sam.

 _Gawd, won’t he just shut up already,_ Connor had thought at that time, before telling Asher to go get surgery for whatever part of his `malfunctioning’ brain it was that was responsible for his supposed ‘humor’.

Then Connor had corrected himself: actually, generalized “personality surgery” was advisable. If Asher wanted to _ever_ get laid, that was. Just as Asher had started to dutifully inform him of all his possibly fictional recent sexcapades yet again, Connor had decided he was going to CVS instead, and said bye.

 _Asher…_ Connor cursed himself. He winced. His own words burned like acid in his head. Why couldn’t he have just been nice?! It wasn’t even that hard. His right hand started clawing his thigh. After four years, it had gotten better, but, just as predicted, it kept coming back. No jail, no do-gooding would fix him; time wasn’t working. He wanted to smack something, preferably himself. Badly. Unfortunately, he was with Michaela. Or rather, fortunately.

If he kept thinking about this, there was about a 20% chance he’d start crying, Connor figured. _I probably just forgot my Zoloft,_ Connor tried to reason to himself. A lie, he realized. Connor forced that smile back onto his face, but his thoughts kept going.

Connor glanced over. Michaela still hadn’t noticed.

They hadn’t seen each other, but they had been texting now and then for the last two years. Actually, Connor had heard three or four other incarnations of that same story from Michaela about some dude who she “totally wasn’t into” but yeah right.

 _Maybe this isn’t so funny_ , Connor realized. There were surely plenty of men who were attracted to her, yet he only seemed to hear about the ones that clearly actually weren’t. It seemed that _ever since Asher_ , Michaela had found yet another bad trait to be attracted to: uninterested.

She’ll get past this, he told himself, unsure if he believed it. He realized he didn’t look quite happy when he peaked into the rearview mirror. He plastered his smile back on.

Michaela was only going to be oblivious for so long. The traffic had abated. But listening to her talk usually made him smile.

“By the way how’s the day life going? What is it, twenty years ‘till you’re on the Supreme Court? Or is it ten? Five?”

Michaela beamed. That line never failed.

“Actually, what is a _night-time_ boss like _yourself_ doing in the _days?_ New job?”

Connor’s grin rapidly faded. “C & G.” He considered putting it back on. Nah. No fucks left to give.

“Junior associate?”

Connor shook his head.

“ _Senior_ associate, of course,” Michaela assumed, clearly proud of him.

“Getting colder.”

“You’re... just a clerk?!”

“I manage the interns from Middleton,” Connor confessed. “That’s my job. All of it. No cases for me.”

Michaela couldn’t believe what she was hearing, clearly. “So...” she started. “You got out of jail. Beat the FBI. You beat the administration at the Supreme--”

“No,” Connor cut in. “That was all Annalise.”

It was a long story, actually. He had been approached by a certain Stephanie Clifford ( _nom de travail_ “Stormy Daniels”) on the subway, and before he knew it, he was working with Annalise yet again, and going to the Supreme Court… again. And they had won. Again. It _was_ partly him. But Connor didn’t feel like conceding that point.

Michaela plowed on. “ _You_ won at the Supreme Court, and now the next step is intern _babysitter?!!_ ”

“I needed income,” Connor explained sheepishly, “and, you know, coronavirus happened.”

“I”m sure you had options,” Michaela protested.

“Some firms reached out,” Connor stated flatly. “I didn’t reply.”

Michaela was clearly perturbed. She couldn’t make sense of this calculus.

“And you sent your resumé to...”

“C&G.”

“And?”

“Nada.”

“So, no effort at all. Do you _hate_ yourself?!"

 _Nolo contendere,_ Connor responded. Silently.

"Did C&G even have an ‘intern manager’ or whatever position before you applied or did you _ask_ for mediocrity?!!"

Connor decided to not mention the part about how he had decided he was never arguing a case in front of a judge and jury again. Everything he had ever learned about being a lawyer from his father or from law school had been about cardstacking, gerrymandering what would be considered, covering up parts of the truth, because if you didn’t trick them into thinking the elephant in the room was actually a hippopotamus, the prosecution would convince them it was the murder witness.

Connor respected those who could fight that good fight and he knew that his experience being a lawyer was skewed, but he was done with it. No more framing, no more lies, no more deceit. Even though the end justified the means, Connor wanted a continent between himself and the means. He wanted to be an honest person. But he couldn't tell Michaela her profession was dishonest.

So he covered up that part of the truth with another part of the truth. “I’m sure,” he said,” that Annalise got it invented after someone else became the newest junior associate.”

“Oh,” Michaela scoffed, rolling her eyes. “It _always_ comes back to _Annalise_. _You_ always come back to Annalise. Why do you think you have to be stuck with her? I swear...”

“It’s her who’s stuck with me,” Connor tried to say. But Michaela could not be stopped as she walked him through what a huge mistake this was for such a smart, ambitious _stallion_ like Connor and his limitless potential and all that. He would _overcome_ it all, like he had everything else. Because she knew him so well. Bla... _bla..._ bla... _bla..._ BLA.

 _It’s crazy_ , Connor thought as he tuned her out without really meaning to, how Michaela could have been so close with him, going through all that crap together… but she had never gotten to see him for who he really was. _Not that she_ _ever needed_ _to_ _really_ _know me though._ This stream of inaccurate compliments, Connor thought, was boring, but kind of nice. Good background noise. He didn’t mind.

Before long, it was time for the next topic of Michaela’s lecture: Annalise.

“You more than _anyone_ know you can’t let her continue to sabotage you!”

What did Michaela think he knew exactly?

Well, for Michaela, this was the injustice of the century.

This was less pleasant background noise. She paused now and then, but Connor had no fucks to give, so instead he gave her nods and “yeah”s and “true”s and “fair”s as he assented to her deep and impartial wisdom. He figured he’d amuse himself by counting how many times she said “bitch”. He lost track. But the variety of words next to “bitch” was still interesting enough.

The bitch. That bitch. Psycho bitch. Heartless bitch. Ugly bitch. Crazy bitch. Fat bitch. Fat _gargoyle_ bitch. Bulldog dyke bitch (Connor raised an eyebrow). Selfish bitch. Toxic bitch. Chernobyl-level toxic bitch.

Connor tried to change the topic to HBO’s “Chernobyl”. It was great. Michaela should watch it. He failed. Oh well.

Criminal bitch. Waste of space bitch. Waste of life bitch. In conclusion: bitch.

“She should just kill herself already,” fumed Michaela, about the legal titan who had just been called the “most persistent obstacle against executive overreach” by the New York Times, the “front line defense of the rule of law” by the Atlantic, even “the world’s last hope for American democracy” by one op-ed in the Guardian. Connor knew she didn’t mean that, but that didn’t make him less angry at hearing it.

There was one person, Connor thought, who might agree with this assessment. The target.

Traitor bitch. Faithless bitch.

Connor was confused. He couldn’t remember Michaela ever being this vehement about Annalise before. He asked. Michaela just wanted Connor to understand just how badly he needed to escape from her “that bitch’s” claws, she explained.

Didn’t care about anyone but herself... bitch. She’d sacrifice anyone… bitch. She sacrificed us, didn’t you forget? … bitch.

Whore. Worthless whore at that. Annalise was so ugly but she’d cheat as soon as she got the chance, apparently. That slut, she was probably cheating on Tegan right now. Fucking _gorilla_ whore. (Connor wondered: racist, a bit? He’d better not ask.) That hag, she’d have all the fame and success she clawed her way to, that she “stole”, but she’d die miserable and alone.

Annalise, miserable and alone? She had two lovers who were healthier than her, committed to her, and were somehow both tolerating her cheating. Who had joked about it. In front of Connor.

Connor realized he was gritting his teeth. His fists had clenched themselves too. But those fists knew they were unnecessary. His voice was locked on target and ready to fire. “Which bitch,” Connor’s tongue almost lashed, “are you talking about? Sounds more like the one driving.” He bit his lip.

“We’re the proof,” Michaela was saying. “She ruined us. But at least every time she sees you, she’ll have to remember how she destroyed your life and left you the self-hating shell of yourself you are now.”

_Every time she sees me… is this what it feels like for her?_

It was plausible. It was never fun for Connor to be reminded of Wes. Or stocks. Because Paxton. _But maybe Annalise isn’t as pathetic as me?_ Or maybe she hid it better.

If Annalise were here, Connor figured, she would tear Michaela’s case apart. For being too soft on her.

Michaela was failing to prosecute Annalise for the totality of her sins, she’d argue. Connor could just imagine Professor Keating laying it all out in the classroom. Litigation, she would say, was also warranted for all the other innocents that had been pulled into her vortex of destruction. Bonnie. Wes. Frank. Asher. And his dad, somehow. Nate Lahey Senior. Yesterday, even Sam and Hannah had somehow made it onto that list. Of course, the truth was that not a single person on that list was "innocent". This exact conversation (rather, the screaming match version of it) was what had made Connor run away to go visit Michaela. He couldn’t stand it. Annalise was wrong. But Connor’s words had failed him, badly. And he hadn’t known what to do.

Connor’s fists were beginning to protest, starting to feel necessary. They weren't. Instead, Connor forced his jaw to relax and his palms to open. He turned around, nodded thoughtfully at what she was saying. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I’ve got to quit.”

Managing interns was never supposed to be a permanent thing anyways, after all. And he was done with the damn court cases, that was for sure.

“I’m always right,” Michaela growled. “Especially about _her._ ”

“Hey, Michaela,” Connor said, turning around to give her that smile you sincerely have for your friend that you’d been missing for four years. “Thanks for talking sense into me. I needed that.”

“You looked a bit mad earlier,” said Michaela. Connor hadn’t hid it as well as he’d thought.

“Do you actually believe all those things you said?” he asked. Connor had a nagging, but hopeful, suspicion.

“I just really want what’s best for you,” said Michaela. “What I hate is seeing you like this.”

There it was. He’d missed her.

“Aww, shuddup,” Connor said with a grin, as he rolled down the window. “Love you too.”


	3. Section II -- You didn't choose me, but I chose to come to you

_Dear Annalise,_

_I have seen you prosecuted many times. There’s so much I needed to say, but I’ll never have the chance. You're right, there's things I will never forgive you for. You know what one of those is? That, despite all you taught us, how your case against yourself is **garbage.**_

_You know that cartoon, with two guys on opposite sides of six/nine drawn on the ground, one says “six”, the other “nine”?_

_For you it’s like this: the prosecution explains how it’s neither six nor nine, but proof that God exists, but also that he has a spouse of gender and genitalia unknown to mankind, named Broopsie. And that this proves he likes to bone God in one of his many holy asses. Specifically on Monday though. Because let’s be real, Monday is the day of procrastinating cause you’re mad you had no weekend rest._

_...Okay, that was long-winded and crass, but possibly an understatement of how infuriatingly senseless this all is._

_Honesty: you are both a six and nine. But the accused deserves a zealous defense. So..._

_Take a seat. I’m your prof, Professor H-Walsh . Welcome to Criminal Law 101.5, the awkward coronavirus summer remedial zoom class for 101, or, as I like to call it, **How to Explain That Annalise Should Give Herself A Fucking Break.** _

_**Step 1 – the “witnesses” (/prosecutors) are not credible** _

_The FBI, governor, DA etc were all full of shit and actual “ OedipWes” fanfiction (see Section V though ). Also just obsessed with taking you out. Flattery? Yes. Credible? No._

“See Section V”? Annalise flipped through the papers and saw that the titles all had Roman numerals next to them. “V. I told Lanford”. Great. What did Connor tell Lanford? Against her better instincts, Annalise continued reading where she left off.

_Nowadays, it’s mostly been you prosecuting you. Let’s have some witness testimony about this prosecutor/witness. “I’m the craziest bitch you ever met” – Annalise Keating, two weeks ago. Your witness. I’d replace “craziest” with “clinically depressed + usually drunk”. Drunk? Yes (exhibit B, your “water” bottles, which don’t fool me). Credible? No._

_Then there’s me. I’m a crazy b1tch too. Real craycray, and I plead the fifth about sobriety. I did, coerced, once testify against you, but as we both know, the worst things I said were in that truly joyful year... 2015, you know, w ~~hen I~~ ~~was~~ ~~trying to …~~ _

_My testimony has changed: see below. You’ve done shit, but it’s ~~mostly~~ not your fault, and there’s so much good in you. Net effect: not only are you good for the world – but the world fucking needs you, especially now. _

_**Step 2 – Let’s introduce the real suspects.** _

_In Let’s-Hate-Annalise-istan, it is widely believed that there is only one deity: “Satannalise”, who is so omnipotent that literally everything is her fault, no one else’s, ever. Bat-shit, crazy masochistic death cult._

_Voila, the people who really ruined all their lives, because that’s what you’re putting yourself on trial for; we both know you didn’t kill anyone._

_ Frank – Sam, and… eww. I thought I was an open-minded guy, but… no. Straights think we're crazy?  
_

_ Sam  – Sam himself, his parents, Hannah. See above. _

_A sher – ~~(I miss you dude~~ ~~< 3~~ ~~)~~ His scumbag father ruined himself, and as for Asher himself: Sinclair and ~~Bonnie~~ Lanford. Who got justice for Asher? Us. +1 for Team Annalise, another -3 for straight white people._

_ Nate – he forgave you. He never seems to forgive anyone else, so you’re in the clear. _

_Bonnie – ~~okay I don’t know everything but she was pretty messed~~ honesty: herself. I’m sorry, you don’t want to hear this, but you need to. You didn’t pull her into your mess, you gave her a future. She ruined it, and you, by, I don’t know, fucking murdering people?! I don’t blame you for being fooled, my heart really went out to her too, until you told me – Rebecca. The only thing that’s your fault is how you let her manipulate you. And you let her go… but she tried to sabotage our class action out of spite – did you forget? That’s who she was – toxic, amoral, + murderess. Did you forget that she is the reason we had to cover up Sinclair’s murder, and how she decided to murder her boyfriend, at my fucking wedding?! Consider it: maybe she takes after that awful father of hers more than a bit. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you keep clutching the needles, your fantasy version of Bonnie. _

_Wes – he ruined himself when he killed Sam ~~because.~~ Not you. You did rope us into your crazy cover-up chess game but ~~I just need to look in your eyes~~ ~~to~~ ~~tell he was manipulating you with his I’m a cute puppy who could be your son act~~ … okay please don’t read that^, we can all be horribly irrational in the right circumstances, as you were in. You knew you would likely end up accused of your husband’s murder, and if Wes was just arrested on bonfire night, you would be likely spared that in my opinion – but you weren’t being rational. ~~Bonnie manipulated the fuck out of you too~~ You can’t judge your whole life from that._

_Okay, I might not know all there is to know about Wes and his mom and his whole Mahoney baloney thing, but as I take it this is another straight white dude raping someone, right?_

_If I see anything to take away from this, a still dubious but more rational conclusion is straight white people should stop reproducing, because their rape, serial killing, and incest kinks are just too much._ _Jokes aside, I can’t speak for Michaela or Laurel, but let’s talk about me -- did you ruin me? Or did you save me? Or both? Well, one thing is clear: I chose it._

_ **Step 3 – Let’s dig out the rest of the evidence** _

_There are two lies I used to tell myself a lot. Now I hear you saying them._

_1) Everything that happened to me is your fault._

_2) I was just passive in all of this, I did not choose it._

_And the corollary of those two is that, somehow, you owe me. Which means you have to help me. Then when shit goes bad for me, you blame yourself, so you owe me more, and it goes in this circle, ad nauseam._

_Literally, ad nauseam – I had to puke out this letter._

_I tried to convince myself of these things by yelling them at you. I just couldn’t stand the guilt. So I had to deflect it onto you. You are right that you were partly to blame, but not like I said and ... Now, I hate hearing you repeat my words. You know what that gives me? Guilt._

_Rebuttal time: I was broken before I met you. More on that later, see section IV. Did you fuck me up even more? Honesty: yes, that’s why I tried to escape you in 2015, and was the one “prosecuting” you back then. But I changed my mind. Doesn’t that say something? Because just like Bonnie, it was_ _me_ _who came to_ _you, again and again._

_I chose to come to you, before you even knew who I was._

_Bonnie chose me, not you. You wouldn’t have even noticed me, were it not for Bonnie being touched or whatever by my conversion therapy camp shutdown fairytale._

_You claim you looked at my essay, saw the “good person” behind that hairball of cringe. Bullshit. Oliver got all your emails from then. While you were “vetting” me after Bonnie attached my info, you sent no less than forty-six emails pulling various strings to get a certain Wes admitted to Middleton. The email with my essay is still marked as unread._

_But if you had read that crap, you would have seen that I cited a case of yours as an “inspiration”. _

_I did that for every law school I applied to, I chose someone to be “inspired” by._

_But for you, it was also sincere. Well… maybe not exactly the way you’d expect._

_I’d heard it more than once. Probably a colleague or two, maybe a friend, maybe a fuck, probably the “straight” overlap. We were talking applications, I mentioned my sleezy little stratagem, said I’d drop your name in my essay for Middleton. He told me about your “reputation”._

_Apparently you slept around. A lot. You were this “evil SJW bitch”, apparently you’d disguise yourself, and seduce people, and win your “stupid social justice whorior” battles this way. Balls busted, cases busted too. Like it’s your fault corrupt guys wanted to screw you, but ended up screwed?_

_When I heard that, I was… inspired. I was sleeping around a lot because I was ~~maybe a bit~~ seriously addicted (section IV). I didn’t have another way to get that endorphin fix, so like all those people who listen to songs on repeat… you know. It’s not like I wasn’t ashamed. Suddenly, I could daydream about pimping myself for justice. Instead of fixing myself, I could get my fix, and be James Bond, civil rights edition. Sweet. I’d be great, but also me. Or at least what I thought was me, back then._

_I had choices for which law school to go to. I chose Middleton, and you ~~might have~~ definitely influenced that. _

_Then, I made sure I was in your section for Criminal Law 101. When I should have been giving my other classes 100%, I gave 70% so that I could focus on my mission for yours – gathering the human resources I needed so that my addiction could save your cases. There was the sexy journalist Julius or whatever the name was, the sexy hacker, ~~the (honesty:) not sexy guy from the DA’s office that maybe I needed to buy Viagra for~~ … etc. _

_I didn’t care about the stupid trophy, I just wanted to use you, for your sweet approval._

_Yeah, use you._ _§_ _IV_ _. I’m an actor, I do it almost without thinking, I act to give_ _people_ _what they want to see,_ _to_ _get what I wan_ _t_ _._ ~~_F_~~ ~~ _or some absurd reason,_ ~~ _your approval was intoxicating. That’s the already-messed-up guy you met in 2014._

 _You know what’s sick about_ _this_ _? Even when I “hated” you, I craved your approval. I did_ _n’t_ _hate you, but_ _honesty:_ _I_ _had_ _reason to._ _I’ll never_ _forgive you 100%. I can’t forgive myself, I can’t forgive Jeff_ _(_ _§_ _IV),_ _what makes you think I could forgive_ _someone who tried to make me shoot them? Who made me perjure myself on the stand?_ _Who fled to Mexico when I needed you most?_ _H_ _ere’s the thing – I’m irrational, I’m allowed to_ _never totally_ _forgive you even when you deserve_ _it._

_So I got disillusioned, sometimes I said the things you repeat nowadays. I thought you were this legend, that I’d be sleeping around to save the world. I didn’t think it'd involve seeing people die, covering up murders, defending deplorable psychopaths, framing your lover for your husband’s murder… I had this vision of you that I was proud to work for, and you just destroyed it, so of course I hated that. This was the time where, yes, I wanted to get the fuck away from you, and I tried to, but Stanford didn’t happen. _

_But I was wrong to expect you to be an ideal, not a person._

_If you were ever actually that ideal, you would never have been able to save me. Yeah, I don’t like admitting that, but you saved me. After Wes got wessed out of this world, I thought to myself, that little bitch is lucky as always, but why should I let dreams be dreams, and the day I came clean, I almost did it. On a crowded street, using a public bus no less – so I can’t blame you for trying to use me to shoot you; I was willing to traumatize a whole busload of people._

_I would have tried again, if not for you. Y ou were willing to defend me and believe me that I didn’t kill Wes, even when I turned around and accused you of killing that boy you cared about, well, let’s just say “a lot”. But you took me as the mess I was, and told the others that truth that I couldn’t even tell you – I was not going to survive if they didn’t believe me._

_What’s the word for that? Magnanimity, I think? It’s not a word I use much. I don’t forgive much, though I say I do. But you saw me as I was because we’re alike – messed up, but salvageable. So thanks for being messed up but also great._

_And so I chose you a third time._

_I failed out of law school, I was throwing away my life as I threw away mi padre’s tuition $$$. Oli wasn’t coming home until late. He was texting Simon to play Settlers of Catan as if Simon would ever play that (honesty: turns out he did, I was paranoid)… I thought to myself “so this is what they mean by ‘it gets better’”: miserable, rather than miserable and also scared for your life. Bored almost all the time, amusing myself with humorous ways to kill myself rather than the boring cliché ones… wondering if Oli cheating on me with probably Simon of all the not-worth-it people…_

_I went to “visit” a dude off Humpr because why I didn’t give a shit anymore, I unfairly thought Oliver was cheating anyways and yeah Jeff got inside my head, I saw a bus coming, contemplated it, but just got lost in thought. Then it stopped. Your house was near its route, I realized. I needed help._

_You had understood me so well before, maybe it was a bit creepy how well you knew me better than I did, that “scared little boy”, afraid of people actually getting to know him. True in ways you still don’t even know (§IV). I came to you again._

_You put me to work on your class action case. And, somehow, I was happy like I’d never been before. I called my sister, just to tell her how happy I was. I’d never done that before._

_It was actually not far off from what I had dreamed about doing before, working for that “Social Justice Whorior” hotshot. We didn’t even need to screw people literally to do it figuratively, and we took that case to the Supreme Court and won -- with integrity. I couldn’t convince myself I was a good person, but that felt good. And I knew you weren’t a perfect person either, but I could see what you were accomplishing. You showed me that people like us can still be good, that my life doesn’t have to be about destroying people. And the idea that my life could be different was something I had known only as a fact, not a feeling, before._

_So then I chose you again, when you wanted me to return to law school. I didn’t want to. How could a criminal like me practice law? Oliver told me he saw my “passion”, he had heard me talking to my sister about the “legal nerd” shit._

_But there are plenty of other places I could be passionate about that. I didn’t have to be a lawyer. I chose law school, and Middleton – because you. Again. I didn’t even apply to Stanford this time .I wanted to keep working for you in the fall, like we had for the class action. I don’t think I could have admitted that to your face._

_When I chose you again after trying to escape you after the Hapstall crap, it was an educated choice – because I had seen you for who you truly were, and in spite of everything, you were a person I wanted in my life. And not only that, you were a person I saw who was trying really hard to repent, to be a good person, and actually succeeding at it. How could I not admire that? How could I not want to be that? How could I not want to work for that?_

_And so I chose you again, and again. You might not believe me, but with Lanford, even when you abandoned me, I tried to choose you, but it didn’t work, and I’m sorry. See §V._

_You always think I wanted to get rid of you. After you got me out of jail, after we won in Walsh vs. United States, I thought “I’m putting it all behind me”. I’ll be Connor Hampton, not the “Walsh” of Walsh vs. United States anymore. But when (is it corny to say?) duty called, and I didn’t have the hubris to think I could run the Clifford case on my own, I chose to come back to you, again – and we went up against the administration, and won!_

_So Annalise, tell me, what does this mean? I have heard you, over and over and over, repeat back to me this line I accidentally convinced you of, that everything bad in my life started with you. Maybe I’ll forgive Jeff for that... only if he’s really, really lucky. _

_You told me that when I wanted you to come to my wedding. How could I possibly want you there, you wondered. Yeah, you had me in all sorts of nasty shit. I also became me, and met Oliver, because of you._

_And you abandoned me to the FBI too, but you know what you’re forgetting? That you saved me afterward. Even when I told you that I was the one who originally told Lanford that you and Wes were fucking, you saw through me, and knew what I needed to hear. And you saved me. Again. I would have died, just take my word for it. Because, Annalise, that’s what you are, you’re not perfect, you’re not nice, you can be pretty effing evil but in the grand scheme of things, you’re a great person. That’s why I keep coming back to you, even though you never seem to hear me when I say that. There was a time, when I thought you were absolutely evil, yes. But I came to see the other side of you. Why do you yell and scream at me for saying you should be happy that you helped me?_

_You said last we talked that I only care about you out because, you know, Stockholm Syndrome._

_Well, you know what? Honesty: I did have Stockholm Syndrome! When you were threatening to frame me, and manipulating me to go against everything I believed in, yeah, a part of me still craved your mercy/approval or even mercy from the endless allnighters working your cases, well, yes._

_But then you changed. And I saw that. Yeah, you lied constantly, yeah you were infuriating, but I kept choosing you, so either I’m incredibly stupid, or you have a warped view of yourself. Maybe you saved my life three times? Seeing as you can even admit that the reason you can’t seem to love anyone else is because you somehow can’t love your ass-kicking self, we both know what the answer is: that you’re wrong about yourself, and I’m right. _

_And when I chose you again after you got me out of jail, after we beat the FBI, it wasn’t because I thought I owed you, and it sure as hell wasn’t because I once had some pathetic residual Stockholm Syndrome. It’s because I thought about it, and made a free and fucking well-educated choice, to come to you again, and again, because you were you, Annalise fucking Keating. The reformed version._

_But the thing is, I will never know if you ever wanted me to choose to come to you, to work with you. And it burns. And I don’t think having me around is good for you. So that’s part of why I’m leaving._

Annalise turned the page. The title was that one about “Thalassa” again. Section III. There was a spot of whisky on this one too. Different brand. Oban.


	4. Interlude II: Smoke and Mirrors

_Hampton-Walsh residence, three days ago, around 2:00 AM._

Connor slowly lifted up his head from the table, opened his eyes. Billowing smoke was permeating the room. It smelled like a house fire. He had thought he was at home, but clearly he was not. Where was he?

He was sitting in an arm chair, not a very comfortable one. His bowl, his paper, his whiskey, his pen, they were all gone.

As the smoke began to clear, he recognized the room. Therapy. Shrink’s office. But not the sort of psychologist who wanted her patient to feel comfortable. He still couldn’t see the shrink through all the smoke, but they were on the other side of the room, and clearly not perturbed by all the smoke.

The lights were dim. Connor saw curtains on either side. This place needed light.

“Can I open the curtains?” he asked.

“If that’s what you want to see,” said a familiar voice. Whose voice was that again? He knew it. Male. Tenor. Soft. But well enunciated. Curt.

Connor opened the first curtain. But he found not a window behind it, but a picture. A wide splattering of blood, with the slightly disfigured body of a man in a white collar business outfit. The man’s face – the face of Paxton Curtis – stared up emptily into the sky.

Connor tried to yank the curtains closed again, but instead he ripped them out, and they fell into hands… and then disappeared before his eyes. _What_ _on_ _…_ _earth_ _…?_

Connor looked around the room frantically. The other curtains were all gone too. The “window” on the other side was a portrait of an ax plunging into the flesh of Samuel Keating, in the middle of the forest. There was a hand holding the ax. Connor recognized it as his own.

Connor looked up. Where was the light coming from? There were no light bulbs. There was a portrait on the… ceiling? Joanna Hampton. Looking down on him with eyes that were terrifyingly discerning and… electric. Luminous. And, standing next to her, was a certain Annalise Keating. The light and heat(?) from Annalise’s gaze seemed to warm him, but looking straight at it burned his eyes.

He averted his eyes, and made a note to himself to actually follow through and cook Oliver that Chicken Inasal dish, or maybe he had forgotten the dish’s exact name. Oliver had been putting up with a lot from him lately, he deserved a reward, and he had gotten the recipe from Joanna for that purpose.

Connor turned around. There was another picture behind where he had been sitting. There was a woman tied to a chair, with four people casting what looked like stones at her. She had dreadlocks like Rebecca… but had Connor’s own face.

He turned around again, with an acute sense of deja vu. He knew who the “psychologist” here would be. Surely enough, there he was, standing at his full six feet and four inches of height crowned by black curls, staring down at Connor through his one deep brown eye.

His other eye was burnt out. It was charred, as was the entire left side of his body. Connor quickly averted his gaze to the judge robes Wes was wearing.

Wes set down at his desk, and banged a gavel on the table.

“You are going to ask why you are here again, Connor,” said Wes sternly. “Don’t.”

Against his will, Connor’s eyes were slowly dragged back to Wes’ piercing, unbearable, pleasantly smiling gaze. It set Connor’s blood aflame.

“You’re not so nice,” said Wes, “but you’re so smart. You must realize why you are here. You must know this is a dream.”

“Why can’t I just wake up already then…” Connor grumbled, as he noticed the entire ground was on fire, the flames licking his bare feet and his ankles.

“I’m a part of you,” Wes said, possibly for the fortieth time. This had all happened before. “If you don’t know, neither do I. Sorry.”

Wes’ voice was so perfect. No accent, perfectly pleasant, always smooth, always perfectly enunciated. Death had not freed Connor from Wes’ torturous perfect voice.

The question was, why tonight?

“But Connor, you know the answer, don’t you?” probed Wes.

 _So here I am, cut open on the examination table, for Wes to see everything._ _Or rather, for me to see everything through Wes fucking Gibbins._

Connor rolled his eyes to the ceiling. To the see Joanna looking down at him. And Annalise.

Then the picture morphed. It was Annalise with her arm around Wes. Connor bristled with rage, but couldn’t say why. The words spilled out of his mouth, unbidden.

“What the heck did she see in you?! You destroyed her!!”

“I did,” Wes agreed sadly. “All she wanted to do was help me, and I ruined her.”

Connor glared at Wes, his fists and teeth both clenched.

A tear rolled down Wes’ charred left cheek. Coming from the eye that was no longer there. It made Connor so sick he wanted to puke.

“Here, have this, it’ll make you feel better,” Wes said, as he handed Connor some sort of tea. Connor drank it, for some reason. It had no taste, and it instantly evaporated once it touched his lips. And suddenly, Wes looked… not burnt. And alive. At least Connor was spared that awful sight for now, whatever the hell that drink was.

“It tore me up every day inside,” Wes confessed. “Everyone who loved me was destroyed because of me. My mother, Rebecca, Annalise, Laurel...”

“Fuck you,” growled Connor. _What about me?!_

“I’m sorry Connor,” said Wes. “I say it every time, but you don’t want to hear it.”

“Of course I don’t,” Connor hissed murderously.

“You know, I don’t mind,” said Wes. “It’s better for you to hate me and blame me, I know, it makes it easier on you. And what I did to you was awful. I forgive you. It’s not like I didn’t deserve--”

“SHUT UP!!” Connor cried out, probably for mercy or something like that. He plugged his ears. Wes was such a snake. His every word was treachery.

Connor took a breath, and listened to Wes again.

“But you know why you hate me,” said Wes. “I can take it.”

“Everything about you is a LIE!!” Connor screamed.

“Correct.”

“You… just...”

Connor took a breath and calmed down. “I guess I can’t blame you. It’s all you know how to do. Be this little puppy, because the whole world only hurts you otherwise. I… get that…”

“And why do you get that?” Wes probed.

“Shove it,” Connor growled again.

“I try to be a good person, really I do, but no matter how hard I try, I just destroy everyone around me.”

“Oh come on,” Connor said. “Even I don’t think you were so completely bad.”

“Not completely,” Wes said. “But you’re the one who understands me the most. You always were.”

“You lived every day a lie, and you tried to be good, but you didn’t know how,” Connor said. “And you had no right to destroy Annalise, to destroy Rebecca, me, Laurel, Michaela, all for your stupid little crusades.”

“I did not,” Wes said. “But isn’t there one person you know who is a bit like me?”

“No…?”

“He’s in this room.”

Connor looked around the room. The smoke was thick, but he couldn’t see anyone else there.

Then, the smoke cleared again, and Connor saw. The walls had not paint, nor wood, nor brick. They were all mirrors. And he saw only one man in the room. Wes was not in the mirror. There was just Connor, and more reflections within reflections within reflections of Connor.

“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, just die already!!” Connor screamed in agony.

Wes just stared back at him sadly.

“I didn’t mean that,” Connor said apologetically. “I hated how I treated you.”

“I know,” Wes said. “I forgive you. Isn’t that part of why you kept doing it?”

Connor bit his lip and stared back, wounded. The answer was yes. It was still yes, even after Wes had died.

“It’s okay, you know,” Wes said.

Connor spat: “What.”

“You felt nothing when I died. Didn’t mourn me. Don’t. I don’t want it.”

Indeed, he had not mourned Wes. “It’s not okay,” Connor protested.

“Emotions don’t make sense,” Wes said. “I only pretended to feel bad when Annalise threw Nate in jail to save me.”

Connor shook his head in disbelief. “This is why I hate you!”

“Me too,” Wes agreed. “You think I was ever okay with being who I was?”

Connor gulped. “No.”

Connor felt sorry for Wes. They weren’t so different after all. But Wes had always had it worse than Connor. In spite of it all, he had always tried his best to be good. He had done worse things than Connor had, sure, but he had actual excuses to be the way he was…

And all things considered, he was probably a better person on average anyways, Connor figured…

… _fuck Wes, fuck Wes,_ _SCREW WES!_ Connor could barely contain his hatred. Except it wasn’t quite hatred, was it? It just made it simpler to call it that.

“And now you know,” Wes explained, “why you’re here. There is something you know, something you have kept from yourself, that you cannot admit, but now it is time. Because unlike me, you wanted…”

Connor’s words came unbidden. “Something… I would scream inside… whenever I realized. I...”

“wanted,” Wes prodded, “to be...”

“...you,” Connor finished, tears streaming down his face. He stared up at the ceiling again.

Wes pulled Connor into his robes. There were too many feelings swirling around in Connor’s chest. He felt sick to his stomach again. And boy, Wes smelled awful.

“I FUCKING HATE YOU!!!!” Connor screamed up into Wes’ ears. “Leave me already!”

“Okay.”

Connor leaned back in his chair and found himself back in his house. Pen still in hand. He tapped the paper, thought for a bit, and resumed writing. "Thanks Wes," he said softly. There was a lot to thank Wes for, rationally -- he knew that. He wondered how Christopher and Laurel were doing. He hoped they were doing well, but he hadn't heard anything for four whole years. But did he really want to? Probably not, he figured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think the portrayal of Wes is not accurate, you're right. This is not Wes. This is the image of Connor's guilt mixed with what Connor imagines of Wes five years post facto.


	5. Section III: Thalassa is okay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (pssst I can haz cmt thred plz?)

Annalise raised an eyebrow. She wasn’t sure what struck her more: the pungent scent of Oban coming off the page, the lavender cannabis odor it was mixed with, the fact the section was titled “Thalassa is okay” (what was Thalassa?) or the fact that Connor had left a long Latin quote in a box at the middle of the third page. An alarm on her phone went off. "Take your vitamins". She thought she had. Weird. She read on… grudgingly.

_Dear Annalise,_

_I need to_ _own my side of the road here_ _._ _We’ve dug out plenty of new evidence_ _,_ _but now we must show why_ _critical past witness testimony – mine! – was not credible._

_It’s hard to unpack: I’m such a knotted hairball inside, I swear I must be a grotesque drawn by Picasso. How do I untangle myself when the knot's made of my own limbs? But maybe that’s where I can start: why am I such a tangled mess?_

_I think I have finally figured it out to ~~day~~ night, 2:30 AM, sitting at my dinner table, drunk, two Monsters in and working on a Red Bull , maybe more than a bit of smoked vegetables in a bowl … so I am giving it to you raw. ( Because honesty, and also I can’t cook it when I’m so baked myself. ) _

_As I said, I chose to come to you and I love you, you know, blablabla mushy crap bla. But the knot is that I ~~hated~~ had this ~~anger~~ , ~~this sort of rage~~ this nameless emotion, where I feel ready to explode, unable to contain what’s in myself, yet also empty. This infuriating itch I cannot scratch without ripping myself open, and I rip myself open, and then it heals and I start lying to myself again. And the best part? I can’t even be honest to myself about why I have to rip myself open, I just keep lying to myself. _

_So I just have to rip myself open wide enough so that I can perform surgery, rather than bandaids ._

_I hated the mirror for what it showed me: a satellite just fucking orbiting around you. All your sons are dead, but you have plenty of moons. I’m one, and that pathetic, nauseating Ferris wheel orbit of dependency isn’t how I ever wanted to see myself. _

_One time, at the bar, I was talking with Eve about you. Yeah, she showed up. I knew you don’t want to see her – so I handled it. She told me, you’re the sun. Everyone wants some of your warmth, blabla mushy bla okay maybe I like your warmth too. Maybe when you were proud of me, it was like the sun shined on me a little brighter, made me not feel so cold, not so desolate._

_I like astronomy. The faraway places I can’t escape to, in reality that is._

_So maybe you’re not the sun, maybe you’re Neptune. Distant. Layered. Most of the time, you’re blue, but it’s a deep, mysterious blue – my b1tch boy problems may not interest you but yours just fascinate me. (is that weird? How you see through me is creepier.) Neptune has about a dozen moons, I think._

_I know the second closest one is Thalassa, but Thalassa is a weird one. It was formed by collisions Triton had with other moons, which were destroyed and reformed into Thalassa, weirdly shaped like a disk. Since its formation, Thalassa’s orbit around Neptune is weird and erratic, you see, and it appears to be slowly spiraling inward. Some scientists think it may one day be destroyed as it impacts Neptune’s atmosphere. But Thalassa’s weird orbit is stabilized by the “dance” it does with ~~Annalise~~ Neptune’s closest moon, Naiad, which is also irregularly shaped from past traumatic collisions, but is thankfully more stable than Thalassa. _

_T halassa and Naiad are Neptune’s ~~most loyal,~~ closest ~~men~~ moons, yet Neptune barely notices them. Neptune, that Goliath, she’s so huge, her own orbit around the sun is not even affected by them. ~~The same isn’t true of Triton, who is huge, the second largest moon in the solar system relative to its planet. Triton~~ ~~quite significantly~~ ~~effects Neptune’s orbit. Yet Triton is far away, and caused~~ ~~all sorts of traumatic collisions in the pa~~ _

_What I finally accept, tonight, is that I'm Thalassa, not Triton, that I couldn’t admit the reasons why that bothered me, and that is what made me irrational._

_I’ve done three of my unstable Thalassa orbits around you now. They have phases. I want to ~~scuttle~~ ~~skitter~~ crawl away from all this, the Kafka spider I am, but truth is not about comfort…_

_First I admire you (a lot). Then comes the “rage”, and then the final phase: accepting the crappy truth.  
_

_So what is this “rage”? I was really disillusioned, appalled, with you, is one part. I had thought you were this great person, and suddenly you’re pulling us into crazy plots where you frame your boyfriend, your client, even the governor for Miller. I was furious at being involved in this shit – rightly! (it’s raw, sorry). I was furious at you for what you were doing to yourself too in some of the later iterations. You were finally moving on, Nate makes the FBI target you (and us all), and you repay him by saving his ass?! If he had just turned himself in, Asher and Bonnie and Frank would still be alive, but no, now we had to cover up Nate’s crimes too. I wish this was the reason you made me feel that … thing … it’s so reasonable. _

_But mask off: the truth isn’t reasonable, nor comfortable – it’s absurd, and embarrassing._

_The bigger reason is this… I chose you ~~ **B**~~ ~~ **UT YOU NEVER WANTED TO CHOOSE ME**~~ ~~ **DID YOU**~~ ~~But you only chose me when~~ ~~But you fucking always chose~~ ~~But you~~ … screw this and preferably don’t read that, English is failing me. I’m sorry I had to write this in pen but I intend to be accountable – because radical honesty. Let me write this. It’s weird I know, but this is the best way I can think of to communicate this… _

_\----------_

_Cum suis vivat valeatque filiis,_

_quos simul complexa tenet trecentos_

_paucos amans vere, sed identidem_

_omnium_

_cor rumpens_

_et nec meum respectet, ut ante, amorem,_

_qui illius culpa cecidit velut prati_

_ultimi flos, praeterunte postquam_

_tactus aratro est!_

_ **identidem** _

_\----------_

_That’s Catullus 11, the last two paras. I changed parts of it. I was always a fan of Catullus. He’s a real beast at being a b1tch, really knew the art of the insult – maybe you’re his reincarnation :)._

Despite herself, Annalise actually laughed out loud. Connor had written “:)” with a pen. Why was that so funny, she had no idea.

_This one though, this is sad Catullus, who isn’t quite as sassy, though just as biting. I read for the first time in boarding school, and for … reasons… it was very relevant then, so it always meant a lot to me. But now, it kind of resonated in a new way, like a remix._

_So, like ~half of the poems Catullus wrote, it’s about Lesbia, this woman the narrator loves deeply, but it’s not returned. He claims he’s over her, but BS, he isn’t even half done writing poems to her._

_He’s saying, “let her live and let her thrive with all her tramps/adulterers” (but I’d translate “moechis” as “with … fuckboys”), “_ whom, having embraced 300 of them at the same time, she owns and keeps them, but truly loves none of them, repeatedly breaking all their groins _”. Whether Lesbia really has such good game to have 300 lovers or if it’s just Catullus being a typical straight dude and slut-shaming a girl who doesn’t return his feelings isn’t clear._

 _Anyhow, “moechis” isn’t anywhere in the version I wrote. Instead, I wrote “filiis” (with… sons/daughters). Instead of groin,_ cor _\-- soul._ And _instead of “nullum amans vere” (‘truly loving none’) to “paucos amans vere” (‘truly loving few’)._

_My second (modified) para says this, roughly:_

And let her not look back at my love,

which has been felled,

just like the farthest flower of the field

is cut down (thoughtlessly) by a passing plow

_For Catullus, his love for Lesbia was this beautiful flower, and you can see it from afar, this tall flower you can see from the other end of the field – ultimi flos. That’s him, and his love for her – and what Lesbia cut down._

_But what rips him up inside is not that she did mercilessly, it’s that she did it thoughtlessly: she was just mowing the lawn, and the flower meant nothing to her, she didn’t even notice. You can neither be merciful nor merciless when your victim’s existence doesn’t even matter to you._

_But there’s something even worse: Lesbia is the gardener,  **so she is the one who planted the flower in the first place.** She chose to plant that beautiful flower in the first place, **only to cut it down** **without even realizing it** . _

_And worse still: as the gardener, she will do this **again and again** **.** And that damn forsaken forgotten flower, named Connor Walsh, he’s asking his fucking worthless self the whole time: why did she do this, why did she keep choosing to plant me, only to forsake me every fucking time ?! That’s what it is. I added that last line: identidem, over and over. That’s the feeling. I feel it again, not sure whether I will explode or implode or both, but either way, my skin can’t contain it. _

_But it gets worse_ still:  _every time Ms. Annalesbia plants the “Catullus connorensis” flower, connorensis knows she thinks he will be worth it , that he'll be the tallest in her field. Only for her to reconsider, and then _ Catullus connorensis _becomes so irrelevant and worthless to her she doesn’t even know how she’s ripped through him. He knows he must be disappointing her, every time, over and over, she gets so disappointed he doesn’t mean shit to her anymore - she makes that clear too, oh boy does she have a way with words!_

_Here’s the thing, Annalise: nobody’s view has more weight to me than yours . Oliver’s view matters more but yours is the one I will believe, because I’m this drug to Oliver and sometimes he describes his hallucinations of this amazing person I don’t recognize in the mirror . But you, you know me better than I know myself . That’s why I come to you with my “bitch boy problems” – because I wanted you to give it to me straight, which you do, the sadistic b 1 tch you are (never change – thuck you. )._

_It’s terrifying, actually: you see through me like glass, and you can shatter me like glass too. You fucking weaponize that. Like when I was a witness at your trial. It’s hard for me to imagine you don’t know what you’re doing._

_I always appreciate that you give it to me straight, but sometimes you don’t fucking give it to me, and I need it. Which you know, is the case for… about anything that matters! _

_Like this: You’re always so evasive about why the fuck you chose me when you did. Did you see something in me? Or was it pity, or guilt, or just random chance?  
_

_Well, now we know the first time, despite all your lies about thinking I was a good person, it was just random chance. You rush approved me without even reading Bonnie’s file on me, so you could spend more time pulling strings to get Wes in. It feels great!!!_

_But what about the other two, when you chose me to help you with the class action, and when you stepped in to get me out of jail? I still don’t fucking know!_

_I know I’m being ridiculous._

_Why the fuck do I care so much? Usually people are this way for people they love. What we are is not that. I’m broken in so many ways that my perception of how I’m broken was broken too._

_~~T~~ _ _~~here’s no one I can relate to~~ ~~abou~~ _ _This g oes back to stage I – discrediting the witness._

_Because my reasonable indignation was there but it was not the reason I said all the card-stacked bs that you now believe represents you. There was another part of the truth I always knew. I said it when I was called in after Sam’s murder, even though it was after you stopped me from turning myself in and I was furious for that: you looked tough on the outside, but on the inside, I knew it was so hard for you. And you try hard to be a good person. And you succeed, often. _

_And though what I did say contained some truth (raw, sorry), they came from a confused state of mind : I was reeling from your rejection of what I had built my existence around. Yeah, that’s clingy and pathetic. Guess what I am? I even happily told Bonnie, “I’m basically the new you” – and enjoyed doing so, because as much as I fucking hate to admit it that’s what I wanted. _

_You made me think I could be good. In your expert professional opinion, I figured, you thought I was an asset to your quest for reform. Like that recommendation letter. So I believed there was a reason for me to live, that I could be good for the world after all. Together, we could make up for it all._

_And then when you abandoned me, it was like you took it all away. You had reconsidered. I wasn't worth it anymore.  
_

_Fuck you._

_How dare you make me acknowledge my pathetic dependency, by rejecting it. I’m so pathetic. I just need your approval to feel okay with myself, I wanted your fucking professional opinion on whether I deserved to live._

_It's pathetic and delusional: I just seemed to forget there's a whole universe I don't experience called the rest of your life. Like every decision you made effecting me was determined by me._

_That patheticness, Annalise, that’s where my unreliable testimony came from._

_You often don’t believe my words, but as you always say, stories are convincing. There are many stories. Like the time I wanted to sit next to you at the hearing for the class action, but you said no, “nobody roots for Goliath” (no, dumbo, you’re Goliath with or without me). When I just wanted to chat, to know how you were doing, but no, you can’t “play favorites”._

_Well Annalise, what if being your “favorite” made me feel like I was worth something?!! Forget favorite, what if I just wanted to know I mattered?! And what if I also just cared about you, and I just wanted to be there for you. Because you very possibly weren’t okay. Why the hell_ _is that so bad?! No, because, I figured, I was such a toxic person that even my attempts to care for you were actually me being a parasite off of you, and, I figured, you knew this._

_I can always see what people crave. You were always wanting that kid. Wes. Waitlist 1. What if I could be Waitlist 2? That's what I wanted, or rather just "2", not so much the "Waitlist" part. So how dare you give me what I 'wanted' for the wrong reason: I wanted validation, not your fucking charity._

_I needed to believe that I could make up for all the shit I had done. But you're so damn cold, and fuck me for hating you for it, but I do. You know, what if I fucking needed to care about you?! While you're busy being 'offended', have you ever thought of that, once?! I bet you have! But then know you gotta push me away or abandon me, for your own good? Or maybe you haven’t ever thought of it – probably because I just don’t matter! Either way, THUCK YOU. But also, fuck me, why can’t I just accept reality? _

_So, Annalise, you don’t have to come clean; I already know._

_I had failed out of Middleton, you got me off the waitlist and back in. All I wanted was to know that at some point I had deserved to be there. I asked. (Maybe the timing sucked. Sorry.) Instead, you told me truths I didn’t even ask for. You can’t be Martin Luther Fucking King and handle my bitch boy problems. I needed help, and you gave it because – your words! – you “didn’t want my damn blood on your hands”. _

_I couldn't contain myself, I started shouting at you, in front of the whole class. Because that truth really fucking hurt. And also because I am a whiny toddler who is pathetic._

_I was a plant that maybe you rescued from dying out of **pity** , but in the mean time, what was I? _

_Maybe I was an pathetic, annoying, “ungrateful” weed clinging to your walls that just caused you problems. You couldn’t wait till I graduated and you were rid of me._

_Or, maybe I was just irrelevant._

_Or, maybe I was a reminder of stuff you’d rather forget. Maybe you couldn’t stand to look at me. Maybe you'd think it’s your fault I’m the disgusting little shit you now have to babysit_

_Maybe I’m wrong, but there are all these times that seem to prove that's what you think. Burned into my head. Story time, b1tch._

_It’ s the big day, my wedding. I wake up, Michaela thought it was okay to join Oli and I in bed right when we were going to have a good start to the day, so he could do a “quick hack” for her (wtf, right?). To add to the great “ fabstinent” start for the day, you texted – c ouldn’t come, you said, “sick”._

“ _Big surprise there,” said_ _Ms. Impose My “Fabstinence” . She was really on a roll._

_No, I decided, you were coming to my wedding, dammit. All the preparations, they had to wait. I didn’t even know where you lived, you wouldn’t tell us – but Asher always helps ._

_And so I come to your door feeling all self-important (but not admitting it). Maybe I thought you were down about Nate Sr. I would be the one to make sure you were okay. Because I was going to be important in your life, I could make a difference, me! (clearly I still can’t let this delusion go: I wrote this letter…). _

_I wound up not knowing if you were okay, but pretty certain either way I was just a burden to you._

_First thing when you see the groom of the day – “Asher tell you the address?”_

_Bingo, genius! because I need Asher to tell me where someone who matters to me ~~like a p~~ lives!_

_You weren’t sick – no surprise there!, congrats Michaela, another fucking! gold! star!_

“ _I’m no good at weddings,” you say. Excuse #2._

“ _Neither am I,” I said. “That’s why I wanted you there.”_

_And of course I’m not. How my parents’ marriage went. How I was afraid of becoming one or both of my parents. You knew. Bitch boy problems._

_But I wanted you there. Did you miss that? Or just not care? But then again, this leads to the worse question: why I care so much about whether you care._

_Anyhow, knowing me well as you did, you took real care: “you can handle a bunch of people loving up on you.”_

_Exactly what I wanted to hear, aww, thanks so much!!_

_I expected to be angry when I heard that. But instead it just hurt._

_I wanted so badly, to be proven wrong: “ Bunch of strangers my parents invited,” I said, softly . “T hat’s why I wanted you there. ” _

_This one thing I almost said, but I bit my tongue, it would be admitting way too much: “One of those strangers calls himself my dad. I didn’t want him there. You’re the one I want there.”_

_But you knew that. I mean, you know everything  about me , don’t you?!  You just keep it all from us. So you kept pretending to miss the point: “I skip everyone else’s wedding if it makes you feel better.” _

_I’d say the same words today: “Oh, so I’m just like everyone else in your life – not special at all.” _

_Instead you tried to distract me with some sob story about Sam, which I don’t even remember, because it was such obvious bull -- and classic misdirection._

_I had to get back to the point subtly , ( because if I’m not subtle you are this fucking hydrogen bomb, like last time we talked ) :_ _“you’re the only reason I met Oliver. If I didn’t make him hack that ad agency **to impress you** , none of this would be happening .” _

“ _This” was_ _me marrying Oliver, but also everything else that entailed. Me learning to live a life I don’t have to run away from._

_T hen you again pretend(?) to misinterpret what I’m saying. You asked me, wouldn’t I prefer that, that “none of this would be happening”? As if “this” was Sam, etc._

“ _N o, because then I wouldn’t have Oliver.” Actually, If it wasn’t for you, maybe Oliver wouldn’t have me. Maybe the ground would._

_I saw Oliver dancing with Jeff, stupid traditions &all . The “father” tells the new husband how to take care of his “daughter”, blablabla. He didn’t know me, he knew some foggy memory of 12-year-old me. I thought, it should have been you dancing with Oliver. _

_I remember, when I looked at you as I walked down the aisle. I don’t know what I was looking for. Maybe I was scared. Maybe, maybe, I needed your support or whatever, that vote of confidence from someone who really knew me for the wreck I am, but believed in me nonetheless._

_I don’t know what the fuck that face you gave me was. Pursing your lips, like you’re going to blow a raspberry, but your eyes looking like they’re going to shed tears, and not the happy ones. I didn’t want to stare, but I had no idea what I was seeing._

_I was glad to see you dancing later. I know you love to dance. And then I looked closer. You weren’t happy. Nor were you hiding that you were drunk. I caused your relapse, I realized. I dragged you into something that I don’t know, maybe triggered you to think about Sam or something, because of my selfish need for someone to support me there the way my parents could not. _

_And that’s me, I realized: a leech, off of you, that you don’t even notice, except when I need you most, like how I forced you to endure my wedding just to feel okay. You saved me, and I repaid you attaching myself to you as a leech._

_I’m still sorry._

_You “unchose” me. When Bonnie and Nate murdered Miller at my wedding, it was like Sam all over again. You had a choice – we could end this fast and not have the FBI on our tails if Nate turned himself in, or you could rope us all into another crazy coverup chess game, but this time we’re framing a sitting governor! You could have chosen us, the K4. You chose Nate and Bonnie._

_If it wasn’t clear you cared for me, it should have been more than clear that I cared for you._

_Snow White – didn’t you hear me? I said us dwarves should go down, not you. And you should be free of us. There is only one Annalise Keating in the world. Maybe you’re a narcissist, sure, but maybe that’s a little less bad when you actually do good for people, and you do. But all we ever did was make messes, even when we were trying to help, I think._

_I wanted to tell the truth and go down if it would save you, but you had other plans, which involved ditching us for Mexico right when we needed yo after Asher’s murder. You promised to protect me. You didn’t even let me know you were leaving._

_But I held out for you. Waited for the right moment to help you. Recorded Gabriel. Convinced Michaela it was her “genius” idea to throw her boo under the bus to save you (manipulating Michaela is so easy you don’t even realize you’re doing it until it’s too late, and I should not have dragged her into that – I still feel bad). I had just come home terrified about the FBI watching me everywhere and knowing they killed Asher, but I rushed straight to your house. You had a choice: we didn’t have to testify, but Gabriel would be in danger. You chose Gabriel, the FBI informant, who had come to figure out if you murdered his dad. _

_He wasn't the one who just risked his life for you. Not the one who had stuck it out for you as Lanford left him in a cell without food, while you were on a plane to Mexico despite promising to protect him._

_But instead of angry, I just came to a conclusion: I wasn’t worth it. Gabriel, Nate, Bonnie, they all were, but not me. I was a worthless leech. Maybe you had no choice. Maybe you had to let me go, so you could save those who actually deserved saving._

_I’ ll get to why I said what I did in section 5. I don’t blame you if you can’t forgive me. I think you believe me when I say it ripped me up inside. But what you need to know also is that I hadn’t given up on you. I was certain you’d given up on me, but I held steady for you to the end, and I kept trying to help you win as best I could. The world needs Annalise Keating, whether Annalise Keating wants it to or not.  
_

_T hen, the third cycle, the deja vu is there, or is it a glitch in the matrix, have we been here before? Yes, we have. You are there, getting me out of jail, you answer my defamation of you by saving my life – again! You make me think you see something in me that makes me worth saving. I was going to kill myself, again, but the flower is planted anew, again._

_But why? You don’t allow me to care about you. Whenever I get close, you push me away, why? Well, maybe you can’t stand to look at me. You don’t keep me around because you see something in me, or because you like me, but merely because you think you have this twisted Midas touch: instead of gold, you turn everyone who comes near you into either a corpse or a basketcase._

_A nd you think it is your responsibility to take care of all the screaming toddlers you think you’ve reduced all these adults into, and then if they remain toddlers , it must be your fault._

_Well, you’re free: I don’t need your charity anymore, I’m a grown man, and your self-worth bandaids kept me alive when I needed it, but they didn’t heal the wound._

_This time, I rip myself open and accept it all. No bandaids. Surgery._

_I used to think I could make some difference, egotistically. Maybe, history would look at my fleeting existence with a mild smile, and that would prove it was worthwhile, that I made up for everything, I was a net positive. Narcissism. But now I know better._

“ _Mattering” will not make me okay. I will never be 100% okay. But I can live with that. I_ _don’t need to be perfect. I can just be okay. I don’t need to matter. Thalassa is okay. I’m okay. And that’s all I need to need._

_I don’t you to be ~~someon~~ my father. I never asked you if you wanted to be. And you don’t. And I can live on my own two feet (ok, Oliver helps). I was never going to learn to fill your shoes , no matter how much I wanted to. I can’t. And come to think of it, I shouldn’t even want to. _

_I imagined that history will flatter me, but what if I am just impaled on the history we make, like a butterfly on a pin, and Baldwin forgot to mention the butterfly is pinned in a fucking museum exhibit! All the damn eyes on me! Every day, wondering, do I know what the fuck I’m doing, am I just making a mess, collateral damage? I can’t do this. You can. And you need to. And you don’t need me. It’s time for me to flutter away from this hubris, so I can live a life that is my own. I’m still going to try to do my best, but I’ll do it without hubris.  
_

_I’m a hypocrite of course. I can take the bench, but you, you need to keep doing you. Hypocrisy, but also truth: because the world needs you. Not me. And being someone who doesn’t try to make my narcissistic existence matter… is just freedom at this point. The world does not need me trying to matter. It needs people who actually get the job done: you._

_I t’s okay if I am just a footnote, or less . I mostly remind you of things it’s best we all forget. Just know, you will never be a footnote in my life , you’re a huge, major chapter._

_And I see I do matter to you, in one way: I am a tool designed perfectly for you to hurt yourself with._

_That’s what I am to you. Not satellite, nor weed, nor leech, but knife. You want it to make sense, it makes sense to you if it’s all your fault, so you’re can’t stop using me to cut yourself, because I'm the "proof". No more. I’m leaving, but first, allow me this final hubris, my final attempt to matter, because you have to read this all, and you have to keep it, just like I kept your letter, because I love you and this is the one way I know I ~~can~~ need to matter : your case is crap, but I know I can prove you wrong once and for all._ It wasn't you who ruined me.

_Time to introduce the true culprits._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I love feedback, as always. Thanks for reading!
> 
> And yea Connor is not a reliable narrator. What sort of HTGAWM character would be?


	6. Interlude III: Quelle connorie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the same as the separate story "Quelle connorie".

The time was 4:52. May 28, 2021. Sunrise wouldn’t be long. But he was done, for now.

Connor set his pen down on the table. The pen clicked as it hit the floor after presumably falling off the edge. Oops.

 _Oliver._ Whenever he saw Connor this anxious, he couldn’t sleep. Which meant that, instead of sleeping, he’d be amazing. Oliver was a genius, he had mastered so many codes: R, Python, SQL, Perl, C, C++ and also CHW, a code only he knew.

CHW – “Connor Hampton-Walsh”: exactly how to best make Connor go the f* to sleep. Exactly what songs to sing at 6:00 AM, exactly how to hold Connor, exactly what to say, so that his tiredness could convince his anxiety it was tiring itself out.

But tonight was a truly joyous, _special_ night. The sort where Connor knew that no matter how hard Oliver tried, he would not sleep. So instead, it fell to Connor to make _Oliver_ sleep.

Connor crept to the bedroom, and peaked in the door. Oli. Awake. Reading.

“Hey,” Connor whispered, “Oli… I finished.”

Oliver set down his book and gave a visibly tired, but genuine, smile.

It was true: Connor had finished something. But misleading: he wasn’t done, and wouldn’t be sleeping.

He would be throwing out draft three. No way was he letting Annalise read that. Too personal. _Way_ too personal. He hadn’t intended to go there… but once he started, in his over-caffeinated, crossfaded-plus-adderall state… stopping would have been less effort than continuing. Inertia.

It was going in the trash, but Connor didn’t seem to regret writing it. Maybe it had been good to get all that out anyways.

Oliver rolled over to his side of the bed, and reached out, beckoning Connor to come in.

“I...”

“… just want a hug?” Oliver finished hopefully.

Words were failing. New strategy.

“…hug…” Connor agreed, trying his best to imitate a zombie as he closed in on the bed with arms outstretched, pushing his lips into mirroring the same tired but relieved smile he saw. “And tonight, I do _you_ …”

“I’m… uh… bit tired for sex...”

Connor felt his cheeks rising for an amused, maybe slightly guilty, grin. Nope, wrong face. Evil smile aborted. 

Connor considered his options, and picked out the right words carefully. He hated lying, but sometimes they both could take a _little_ break from the truth. The best lie was one you turned into the truth.

“’I do you’,” he explained, “means I’m the one who holds you. _I_ sing to _you.”_

“But _I_ want to sing to _you_ ,” Oliver protested. "I love singing to you..." 

“Nope,” said Connor. “I finished. So you are going to sleep first. Because hearing your cute little snores is my reward.”

“Oh shuddup,” Oliver groaned, but he obliged. He wriggled in as Connor wrapped himself around. "What the hell, what nonsense is this..." 

" _Quelle connorie,_ " Connor corrected him. Oliver had forgotten most of his French but not clearly enough to miss that awful pun, judging by the light elbow blow Connor received in the chest. Connor grinned again. He loved that. Something further down on Connor seemed to agree. Oops. He had to urgently conjure up images of boring-shaped household objects in his head -- sleep hazard averted.

Connor pondered what song to pick. If he sang “Puff the Magic Dragon”, Oliver would reliably burst into hysterics, no matter how tired he was. Tempting. _Dangerously_ tempting. Connor knew that three hours of snores beat a minute of laughs, but it was so tempting... No, no, no -- avert sleep hazard. Connor still had to master “OHW”, but he was figuring it out. He hummed a little tune that he made up as he went along.

There was once a time when Connor couldn’t imagine sleeping with a guy who snored. Literally. If a hookup started snoring, Connor would always sneak out and evacuate the building as fast as possible. Now he couldn’t imagine sleeping _without_ Oliver’s quiet but mesmerizing little puffs of breath.

And there they were. Connor glanced at the clock. Five minutes. Job accomplished in record time. Connor carefully replaced himself with an ensemble of pillows, tucked Oliver into the sheets, and tiptoed out of the room.

He had to burn up that section urgently. He found his lighter and held it to the edge of the paper. But… he found himself reading it over one last time. It felt so surreal that he had actually written it.

He stopped for a second. He couldn't hear anything. No snores. Had he left too quickly? Connor crept back up to the bedroom and cracked the door open. He smiled. The snores were there alright, they were just quiet, as they always were. Connor sat against the wall and continued reading, using his phone's flashlight, with Oliver's snores in the background. 


	7. Section IV: Whence comes the mask (Part 1: Jeff)

_Dear Annalise,_

_You’re a depressed ~~ego-maniac~~ ~~al~~ ~~schizophrenic~~ ~~narcissist~~ person who cares about others so much, yet thinks everything is about you – meaning, everything is your fault._

_To you, that means you have to fix everything, and if something goes wrong in that process, well, that is another “debt” you incur. This absurd cycle leaves you no escape. Save the masochism for the bedroom, okay?_

_~~You’re basically a conspiracy theorist.~~ Shit just happens, the people around you are their own little shits, but something in you always needs to make sense of the senseless and you think it makes sense if it’s all your fault. This makes sense to you, but only you (I don’t think the FBI even believed their own case against you…). _

_A ctually, somewhere in your head, you know the truth, and it’s not that. You know, because y ou’re really perceptive._

_For you, I’m glass._

_You said, once, that I “couldn’t stand the idea of spending one second alone”, but that I’m “paranoid and broken”, that “I haven’t trusted anyone since I was a little boy”. That I blamed you for “the mess that’s been in my head since then”. The only thing you got wrong is that I’ve always blamed Jeff for that mess, not you. I just blamed you for the other stuff, dumbo. You were right then, but then somehow, you became convinced of the lies I was loudly failing myself to convince myself of._

_You say you’re the reason my (allegedly!) normal, wholesome life went astray. It’s true that I was relatively lucky beforehand, and all the shit we went through messed me up. But I was messed up already. Stories are more convincing._

_I guess it starts with Jeff, the forgettable doofus I list as my father on all the forms. Many problems start with the father, yeah maybe I am too harsh on mine. But any jury would agree Jefferson Walsh is far guilty of messing up my head far more than you are._

_I have worn a lot of masks. The more I wore, the more I deceived people with them, the more repulsive I felt behind them. Dorian Gray. But that made me only need the masks more. I got so addicted, I needed one to look in the mirror._

_A fisherman gets better at it over his life, but he knows it because someone taught him how to fish. I’m not a fisher, I’m an actor. I got better at it on my own, but someone taught me the ‘skill’._

_A good story needs a beginning. But where is the beginning? The son learned what the father taught. But why did the father teach him that? And where did the father learn it himself?_

_When I was a wee lad, Jefferson Walsh, I imagine, was probably never relaxed, but he was at least content. Things were looking up, objectively._

_His children Gemma and Connor were emphatically not obedient kids, but they were doing well in school, in all aspects: grades, social life, extracurriculars… you know, good applications down the line. All those things that parents who don’t like to be called elitist but just want the_ absolute _best for their children like to ~~compete~~ compare notes on. The parents had a consensus: Connor and Gemma will make you proud. And unlike many, Jeff would be able to pay their tuition, no problemo. Bravo, Jeff. _

_His married life was great too. He could always make Pamela smile. She loved him so much. His sweetheart since high school. Bravo, Jeff._

_And he got extra credit, you see, because he had so much love to give left over, that he also always made Melissa smile. He always made Karen smile too. Sarah too. What a player you were, Jeff! Bravo, Jeff._

_Everything about Jeff was fake though. Jeff would smile back, but his smiles were fake. For other matters, he probably used Viagra, once I knew where to look, I kept finding the bottles._

_I learned about the other women one by one._

_Imagine, you are eleven years old. You have the chorus solo in the school concert. Everyone loves your voice, they tell you. You’re proud. You hope your father is proud too. You look for him in the crowd. You want to see his face as you sing. But he’s not there. He said he’d come. He’s going to drive you home._

_You try to find him after the concert ends. You can’t. You head out to the parking lot, looking for his car. It’s there. Maybe he was just in the bathroom or something. You’ll wait by the car, you think._

_But wait, there’s a person – no, two people – in the car! Your dad. And your homeroom teacher. As you approach the vehicle, you piece together what’s happening._

_They’re doing that “sex” thing! That thing that you had learned a couple years ago “a man and a woman do when they love each other, honey”. This is the first time you’ve ever seen porn live, and it’s so much less sexy. Because of this, one day many years later, when a friend says your father is a “DILF”, you will be beside yourself with rage, but not know why. Thanks Jeff._

_Anyway, Jeff is mostly happy with how things are turning out… Except, imagine, he realizes, there is one problem: Connor is hanging out with Gemma’s friends too much. _

_Catastrophe, right?_

_Jeff hadn’t wanted to rock the boat, and maybe he was also impressed by how well Connor fit into Gemma’s little squad despite being significantly younger. There came a point though, when he had to put down his foot._

_Gemma et al wanted to take Connor to the mall. For clothes, and, of all things, jewelry!_

_The most terrifying part was that I wanted to come! They were going to pick me up from soccer practice. “You’re going to buy… video games?” he asks._

_I replied, “Oh, yeah, I’d like reallllllllly to buy the new Zelda game… f’you c’give me two twunnies, pleeeeese”… but that my original plan was to “check out the cool gems”. The gems?!!_

_Well, I thought geology was cool. Sometimes they sold geodes._

_Jeff had a different interpretation though… and t hat must have been when the true horror of how far gone I was dawned upon poor Jeff._

_I was going to look at_ necklaces _!? And_ earrings _!?!?!? I might even start wearing them!? Can you imagine the horror? It was bad enough that he listened to Britney Spears and Destiny’s Child, but now Jeff knew that I was truly in danger. Intervention time – because Jeff cannot allow that wretched fate to befall his beloved son Connor. Good father Jeff. Bravo, Jeff. _

“ _Connor, you cannot go to the mall.”_

_I was outraged. As I always was by his astonishingly consistent lack of logic behind the consistently pointless diktats he gave me._

_I liked hanging out with Gemma’s friends. Everyone my age was boring – and stupid. Gemma’s friends, they were so cool. The mall was going to be great! So what was the problem?_

_Actually, I wasn’t allowed to hang out with Gemma’s friends anymore either. Or any girls at all. Until I “found a girlfriend”._

_Girlfriend? Eww, gross._

_Why couldn’t I hang out with girls? Because, what if I started to, gasp, talk like them!?_

_"And you see, Connor," he said, “if you keep doing that, once you are older, bad things will happen.”_

_So instead, he told me, you have to always show people what they want to see. I was a boy, and they were going to want to see me acting like one._

_A ny man , he said, could listen to Britney Spears on his own time. But I could never mention it in public. Yeah, the boys on the soccer team made fun of me for listening to “girl music”. It’s not like I cared. They were boring. And not that good at socce r. I always had to pull their weight of course, so they couldn’t say crap. Mostly because they weren’t too bright. Actually, they were just generally stupid in every way, so I didn’t care what they thought._

_But, Jeff told me, if I didn’t act like a boy, things would be very, very scary. I didn’t like scary. I was the kid who couldn’t watch the horror films his cousins thought were so grown-up and cool. So in order to not face scary things, I had to be a tough dude, clearly. All my friends would have to be boys. And I gathered that I needed to learn how to show people what they wanted to see._

_Later that year, we move d, from our relatively conservative Michigan suburb, into Ann Arbor._

_Perhaps why we moved is relevant. As you know, Jeff is a tax attorney, but there was this one time he ended up doing defense (because no one else wou ld ) in a criminal case, before deciding “never again” . He was defending a man accused of raping and murdering a policewoman in one of those irrelevant rural counties in the middle of Michigan. She had pulled him over for speeding. It turned out he had cannabis in his position, with intent to distribute. That much, nobody disputed._

_He was black. She pinned him to the ground, and I imagine he was terrified for his life. So he struggled. He broke free, and knocked her unconscious. According to the prosecution, he then allegedly proceeded to rape and break her neck. The defendant maintained that he had simply fled the scene. The defence attorney, Jefferson Walsh, suggested a different culprit to the jury: the young policeman who “discovered” her dead – or did he just find her unconscious, and decide she had a good whole for a fuck? Apparently, he had been accused of raping an unconscious girl when he was in high school too. The truth? We will never know. What we do know is that the young policeman who he had accused of rape and murder happened to be my classmate’s cousin._

_Nowadays we call this a “polarizing issue”. In our sleepy town that was close “but not too close” to Detroit, there was only one pole: Jefferson Walsh was evil._

_Suddenly, Gemma and I had no friends. Kids threw paper clips at me during class, and the teacher reprimanded them for disturbing the lesson. But they kept doing it, and the worst they got was a stern talk, which changed nothing._

_I got detention for asking why she always told them “not to disturb her lesson” instead of to not disturb_ me _. She told me I had to learn to control my anger. Maybe I riposted, maybe it was in front of the whole class, saying that she didn’t really “control her anger” that one time Joey said she had a mustache (she did!)._

_Maybe I got taken to the principal after that ._

_Maybe he took her side._

_Maybe I decided he needed to suffer ._

_Maybe I told him some things about his beautiful young fiance – who, by the way, was my previous homeroom teacher._

_Maybe I told him exactly where she had been after my concert – you know, getting boned by my dad’ s Viagra._

_Maybe that was the day I learned what “defamation” meant, and also got suspended._

_My dad sat me down. I needed to control my temper._

_I didn’t really understand what rape was, but I knew what murder was. I asked my dad if the man he had defended was innocent. He was innocent, Jeff assured me, but he asked me: wouldn’t he still deserve a fair trial either way? I nodded. I liked things fair. When things weren’t fair, it made me angry._

_And things really weren’t fair. Why did everyone hate me suddenly. What had I done?_

_They’re bad people, my father explained. Actually, all people are bad, he said._

_I asked: We’re not bad people, are we?_

_He didn’t respond. Instead he explained it to me in words that a boy in middle school would understand. Everyone want ed to be “the cool kids”. It was true. There were those kids who were so nice until they became “popular”, I knew it well. Maybe I was one of those. My friends weren’t like that, I had once thought – but now that I was the “uncool kid”, it turned out he was right. They were bad people too. Because once it was cool for them to kick me, and throw paperclips at me, it was like we had never been friends._

_But were we bad people?_

_That, my father, explained, was why I couldn’t talk about listening to Britney Spears, or act “girly”. Because if I had done that, they would be throwing paper clips at me for that too. I realized they were right. There was this boy, Danny, he was much more effeminate, it wasn't just music taste -- he talked like a girl, walked like a girl… and he had no friends. And was picked on. Who picked on him? My former friends and… and…. me. I called him Danielle. Actually, I was the one who came up with that, and others picked it up. We said it as we would beat him up. He didn’t really come to school for a week after that. I’d laugh at what a wimp he was, with my friends… who weren’t my friends anymore. _

_I was a bad person too. A really bad person._

“ _Would they think I was a fag if they knew I listened to Britney ?” I asked my father. That was the word I always used for Daniel. Jeff shouted at me: I could never say that word again._

_Some time later, I asked him why I had to hide that I liked Britney, wasn’t that lying? hadn’t I always been told, lying is bad?_

_He said sometimes people need lies to defend themselves. Like his clients and their tax … issues, I guess . Lying he said, was good if it was for the right reasons. That made sense to me : if everyone lies, then fair ness means everyone has the right to cheat at being honest. I like things to be fair._

_Jeff doesn’t know what the truth is, actually. He lies so much he forgets it. This one lie, he seems to really believe. He told it to Oliver, he probably told it to you: his fake story about how I came ou t . He loves reciting this line about how I told them they would accept me as I was, or I would go “live with my people”._

_I never said that. It’s probably a thing that started because he got laughs from his colleagues. He can lie for the stupidest reasons. Bravo, Jeff._

_He also likes to talk about how “independent” I was. What a nice tale, how I was “independent” – doesn’t that make it all just okay, Jeff? Yeah Jeff, how you were never there for Connor all those times, or Pam, when you ruined her life, and your daughter Gemma had to explain to your son Connor what it meant that your ex-wife was on suicide watch? Bravo, Jeff._

_Here’s what really happened._

_I had a game I played sometimes. I would listen to adults talking, and try to make sure they didn’t know I was hearing. I was a secret agent – I was a ninja!! Maybe it was a little immature that I still did this at age twelve – you’re thinking this, and are right._

_My mom was pretty oblivious. My dad was rarely if ever home, so it was usually her and her friends that I eavesdropped on._

_In Ann Arbor, you see, they were into all sorts of stuff that were new to me, like quinoa salads and ancestry tests. It was all the rage, but my mom claimed to simply be uninterested. We knew we were boring mostly-Irish white people, she would say, so what’s the point, which of the 32 counties we came from? (yes, 32!) But there was my mom, an hour later, crying in her friend’s arms. We looked like Jeff, her friend said. I wasn’t sure why it mattered if I looked like Jeff, though in hindsight it should have been obvious. But she felt so guilty that she had cheated._

_This didn’t seem fair to me. Why could Dad sleep with all these other women, but my mom was so sad that she had been cheating sometime long ago? She had never done it again as long as I’d been alive. I know this: she’s such a ditz – she’d never be able to hide it. _

_That was when I decided, no more lies, no more secrets. I was going to do my part, and so I hoped they’ d see the light and do the ir s . I thought, if she just knew that my dad had cheated too, then it would be fair, and she didn’t need to feel so bad. We’d all be happy._

_I was only twelve, but I was a genius! So naturally I knew the universe well, you know. I had done my research. It was April 2001. “Sodomy” was still illegal there in Michigan, but the Netherlands had just become the first country where gay people could get married. My mom’s sister Bridget, she introduced us to her new girlfriend, and I had just learned about the scientific method. I put what I had learned in science class to work in the “field” (a statistically weighted and representative sample of internet porn). The results confirmed it: I am only attracted to men._

_So I purposefully stood up at the dinner table, and made my announcement: no more lies, no more secrets, I told my parents. I am doing my part, I came out, now you have to come clean, I said. I told them I was “a faggot”. My dad furiously wondered if I actually knew what that meant. I told him I did, citing the various dictionary and biological definitions, and informed them that I had used “the empirical method”._

_Instead of the truth, I got an hour of my parents telling how they were sooooooooooo proud of me and accepted me, and whatever. I was furious._

_The truth was coming out, no matter how “proud” they were. I was going to make sure my mom wasn’t crying to her friends anymore, because she hadn’t cheated, it was just fairǃ A week later, I made another announcement at the table: I am revealing the truth if they didn’t._

_Being the genius I was, I knew that if I just told the truth, everything would be fixed. What nonsense ~~– quelle connorie.~~ Naturally, instead I just broke everything. _

_My mother went first. She revealed that she was still terrified that Gemma and/or I could be the children of another man. Some CEO, I think it was a telecommunications company or some well-known (?) sort of calling center, I’m not sure if I remember right, I didn’t care, and I never asked again._

_My dad had an announcement. But it wasn’t the one I thought it would be. He was leaving. To “find himself”. Then for the next year it came in a trickle. He had a boyfriend. He had “loved seeing my mom smile”, but,_ _clearly,_ _he had never loved her_ _the way she had thought._ _She had thought he was the one for her ever since they were high school sweethearts._ _He wasted so much of her life with this lie. She could have found someone who actually loved her. She still hasn’t._ _P_ _robably never will._ _Bravo,_ _Jeff._

 _I hate him so much, still. The DNA tests later confirmed we_ _are_ _indeed Jeff’s kids –_ _a shame_ _. You may think I am being harsh on him. It’s hard for people to come out, blablabla. Well,_ _he just disappeared “finding himself” while_ _my mom found we_ _could no longer afford to even keep the house anymore. My mom’s family is not as wealthy as his side is. But h_ _e refused to help,_ _and didn’t even pick up her calls_ _._ _Now he wants to be in my life again._ _I’ll take the tuition money,_ _it’s_ _reparations,_ _but_ _it’s not_ _enough_ _. A_ _nd_ _doesn’t give him to the right_ _to do things like, after seeing Oliver for_ _less than_ _a day, tell me that Oliver wasn’t right for me._ _As if he knew me, after going missing for half my life._ _You were right – he’s the one who’s not right for me._

_You will wonder, doesn’t this mean I was wrong when I said – and when I still say – that lies are what destroy everything? Because it was the truth that destroyed my family? But it never would have, if there were no lies at all. That’s what you never seem to get. If you just tell me the truth from the start, I can take it. But I just can’t live this life where I have to always wonder how much of the iceberg is underwater, that there’s something horrible lurking there, just waiting for the wrong moment to explode. Maybe you can understand a little better now._

_Instead, the lesson I took away was this: people are awful creatures. They lie, they cheat, they’re hypocrites, they’re good at feigning virtue, but they’re all rotten inside. And I was my father’s rotten flesh and blood, now the DNA confirmed it._

_Jeff had an accomplice in making me the little shit that you met in 2014: Aiden Walker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I love feedback :)


	8. Section IV: Whence comes the mask (Part 2: Aiden et al)

Annalise paused for a second. That name… was it familiar? “ _Aiden Walker._ ” Who was it she knew with that name?

Then she remembered: having just won his election to the House of Representatives, Aiden Walker (CT-03) had been one of the first public officials to draw media attention to Walsh vs. United States, by bringing it up at a live interview after his electoral victory. He and Connor went way back, apparently.

She also remembered he and his wife had come to Philadelphia and had lunch with Connor some time during the case.

Wait, there was another person by that name Annalise had known, however. Who was that? It was the name of someone’s fiance, she thought, but she couldn’t remember whose…

She continued reading.

_When I went off to boarding school_ _in New Hampshire_ _(yes, on my father’s reparation dime)_ _, I joined debate club._

_My first debate: age 15, I was arguing against this guy… he was a year older, tall, incredibly intelligent, elegant, and eloquent far beyond his years. That was Aiden Walker._

_My argument was predicated on the objective fact that all human beings are fundamentally corrupt, as we know. Therefore, I posited: if possible, a just but totalitarian government that put all citizens under near constant surveillance was, although imperfect, necessary to prevent the powerful from abusing the powerless . It was the social credit system – before China plagiarized me!_

_Aiden predictably fell back on bullshit arguments about free will and the inherent (but imperfect) goodness of humans, that philosophically we deserved a chance to do right by our own accord, all that feel-good bullshit._

_Meaning, his rebuttal consisted of him walking straight into my trap._

_I demolished him._

_The reality, I explained with an avalanche of history and all statistics on the workings of modern society , is that humans are awful whenever they can get away with it. Free will, meanwhile, had long been abandoned in cognitive science as a myth._

_He was not ready for this from a rookie, so I steamrolled him. This case had been preparing itself in my mind for years._

_While his side’s complacency about human nature saw no need to save people from being murdered and exploited, I offered salvation for all those lives, all for the small price of losing our naivety. His arguments about government abuse of power were also easy to obliterate: if government didn’t control people, I reasoned, Wall Street ‘free’ market warlords would control us anyways, so who cares? Taken to its logical conclusion, his argument implied no government would be necessary at all, but who the hell wants to live in an anarchy, actually? The only difference between the real world and mine was that we didn’t have the ability to truly save people from being destroyed by each other -- yet._

_After I won, I lied to everyone that “I didn’t really believe that”._

_But Aiden walked back with me. He said it sounded like I really did believe what I had argued._

“ _Well sure, it could make sense,” I said, “but I don’t think we can really sum up the world in a 45 minute debate, so...”_

_He saw through it. He asked me-- did I really want to live in that world?_

_I wasn’t sure why he really cared what I thought, but I answered honestly – no._

_So he presented to me his counter-case: a world where there are no secrets, but also no compulsion to do right. How would that work, he admitted he didn’t know. But, he said, he thought all people were good inside or at least wanted to be, and if we could only communicate our needs to each other, and to ourselves, we could always work something out. People want to be good, even if they aren’t, so they try, and we’re all in this together. We could figure it out together._

_I wanted to think I could be good. I could figure it out. We could all figure it out, together, maybe…And somehow I found myself agreeing._

_He really was Obama before Obama. ~~This is corny as fuck, but he gave me hope.~~ ~~About everything, really.~~ ~~And~~ we kept talking for hours and hours. Before long we were sneaking off into the bushes to smoke “the green” together. And a few weeks later, I was in bed with him. _

_We had a lot in common. We both had fathers who had left. Maybe we both missed our mothers. Maybe we wouldn’t admit we missed our fathers. And I wouldn’t admit it, but I started to get attached._

_And I didn’t make any other close friends besides him. I didn’t really trust people. I would look around, and just see all the worst traits in everyone (I still do). In hindsight though, I can’t blame myself, both after what I had experienced, and because, ahem, prep school is full of pretentious assholes, the sort who would, you know, use a name like “Waitlist” as a jibe._

_What was … maybe less rational… was my belief that Aiden was the only good guy there, which let me complacently avoid trying to get close to anyone else._

_Aiden explained that what went on “between us bros” was on the “down low”, and_ _if his mom found out, she would disown him. He was an only child, his dad was gone. I understood. I wouldn’t do that to him._ _Or her._

 _But he said something else. He was glad to have me and all the other guys he was sleeping wit_ _h (I wasn’t the only one)_ _as “practice”. He was practicing for when he meant the love of his life._

_It was insanely fluffy and corny. He wanted to give her the best first time ever. He imagined she’d be this brilliant woman, but still innocent in bed, and he’d be able to show her an amazing time. This was actually ridiculous and maybe somewhat backwards, but somehow I found it really charming at the time, and maybe it made me like him even more... something outrageous and painfully stupid like that._

_So on a conscious level I convinced myself Aiden and I were “bros” or whatever the heck he was calling it that week, but this part of me wanted to impress him, by showing him I could follow in his footsteps and “practice” with all sorts of guys. It was hard to pull off at first but I learned._

_Confidence was half the game._

_The other half, I realized, was patiently scoping out the target before going in. What did they want,what were they looking for? Usually they were looking for a guy who would suck them and make them feel like a real manly straight dude, and only once they had had been validated with enough masculinity-validation foreplay, they let me into their ass, which was of course the real goal on both sides the whole time. Bit by bit, I learned how to act as whatever person they wanted to go to bed with._

_And I got very good at it. (As it turns out, many “straight” guys aren’t quite so straight, especially when they’re at an all-boys boarding school… and the signs became easy to see.)_

_Fast forward a year and a half. It was his birthday. I knew he would be graduating soon… and that I was really going to miss him._

_He had always liked Rousseau, intellectually, but I remembered he had once said he never got to read the originals. I got him the French original version of_ Du Contrat Social, _with translations, annotations, and other sorts of commentary about the legacy of various passages. I was excited, corny high school jazz, you know. Couldn’t wait to give it to him. I hid in his closet (yes, I know), clutching the book, waiting to surprise him._

_He arrived, stumbling into his room, birthday drunk off all that booze we were forbidden from having even a sip of. With Liam._

_Liam was one of my favorite guys to bone. Black curly hair, green eyes, bit of a baby face but he wrestled and it showed, and he was also embarrassed as fuck about having cute little freckles literally everywhere… adorable, really, you know._

_Anyhow, I had excitedly told Aiden just the previous day about how good at it Liam was… with perhaps a bit too much detail about Liam’s dick. Oops. Well, you know, Annalise... dicks are a bit of a passion for both of us, and we can only talk about our little phallus taxonomy with each other, but… somehow, I had thought Aiden and I were on the same page..._

_I was excited for Aiden though. I was thrilled that he would be getting a taste of Liam too. I liked to share good experiences, you know._

_I was looking forward to talking about what we both thought of Liam, and of Rousseau’s D_ u Contrat Social. _After they finished going at it, I was just about to burst out of the closet, when… they started talking. A bout me._

_L iam was wondering, since we were all doing this stuff, having our “bro jobs” and all, how could any one tell if one of us was “actually, you know… a fag?”_

“ _You know,” said Aiden. “_ _It’s easy to tell.”_

“ _How?” demanded Liam incredulously. “I mean… no one here talksss like a fag…” He hissed his “s” as if he had that whole “gay lisp” thing that only gay people who are either fifty or in Hollywood actually do._

“ _Connor,” Aiden explained, “_ _talks like a total fag. Not how he talks, but what he says. ”_

… _what?_

_I couldn’t believe what I was hearing._

“ _Wait…” Liam started. “He’s gay?!”_

“ _Open,” said Aiden. “Just ask him.”_

_Silence. Liam was staring, dumbfounded. If I was any other guy I’d be proud. But I was never one of those losers who wanted to “pass”. I talked “masc” because it got me laid, not to “pass”, and for the most part it’ s how I am natural ly anyways. But with my guilt (I still have it) about how I possibly ruined “Danielle’s” time in middle school, I was done with that “masc” crap before it even started._

“ _You know,” Aiden said. “You shouldn’t talk like that. People will think you’re a homophobe. That looks bad, and it could come back to bite you in the future. ”_

“ _You’re right,” Liam realized. “I’m not a homophobe. You’re not a homophobe. I mean we have actually gay friends right…?”_

“ _Do we? Any, actually?”_

“ _I guess I don’t...” said Liam. “But Connor’s your friend, isn’t he?”_

_A lump rose in my throat. Aiden set down something made of glass. A beer bottle he had presumably just chugged the rest of._

“ _To be honest…” he started, “I’ll miss a lot of people when I graduate. But not Connor.”_

“ _Dude, I never would have guessed,” Liam scoffed. “It’s like you’re always with him!”_

“ _Because I can’t get rid of him_ _without hurting his clingy feelings,” confessed Aiden. “I used to think he was such an interesting person. He’s so smart, he’s well-spoken, but the more you get to know him… the more you realize how_ rotten _he is inside…”_

“ _Damn,” said Liam in disbelief._

“ _You know he talks about everyone behind their backs? This guy ‘can’t be trusted’, that guy is ‘fake’, this dude is ‘stupid’, then he goes and diagnoses them with this or that ‘complex’ like he’s Sigmund Freud, and he thinks I’m interested.”_

_I was guilty as charged. My mind was racing, trying to think of ways to somehow convince Aiden that I wasn’t a bad person. I was just struggling to see the good in people, and wanted to be told I was wrong about the bad. He didn’t get that._

_But maybe he was right. Nobody deserved to be talked about the way I talked about … honestly, most people at the school…_

“ _Did he talk about me?” asked Liam._

“ _He thinks you’re hot, you’re his faaaaavorite to ‘bone’ , as he sezzit ” Aiden slurred. “And he reall llll y likes your ‘ sweet’ ass. And your ff-reckles.”_

“ _Oh god, that’s so gross!” Liam practically puked out._

“ _He also wishes you’d wear tight pants more often.”_

_Aiden then repeated my artistic analysis of Liam’s dick, with a level of comprehension quite disappointingly akin to a wine review done by a 16 year-old who has only ever shot Fireball and Everclear._

“ _That’s so fucking creepy! Do you think he_ wants _me?”_

“ _Nah,” said Aiden. “_ _He thinks you’re a ‘dudebro’ and so you can’t be trusted. Like literally everyone else. The one he wants is the one he trusts. Me.”_

“ _You’re right...” Liam realized. “He clings to you like an effing tick!”_

“ _He somehow doesn’t get the message I’m not interested. I never come to his place, I never text him, I never do him, he just doesn’t get it.”_

_I couldn’t breathe. But I was breathing very fast. I was trying to be quiet, but the fact that they didn’t hear me was probably because they were busy drinking and cuddling. ( They were soooo into it, I knew q uite well. “Straight”, my ass! )_

“ _What,” Liam scoffed, “you can’t just explain to him about how ‘no means no’ and all?”_

_I felt so cold inside. But it was like my skin was on fire. I wasn’t sure how this closet was containing me. But I couldn’t leave._

“ _Well he_ _also gives a good brojob...” Aiden confessed sheepishly._

_It was true, I realized. It had been nothing but me sucking off Aiden lately. But the reason was that Aiden really just sucked at sex. He was like a statue. He could never get into it. I wanted to protest, I gave him more than just a ‘good brojob’, he knew there was no one better at it than me, dammit! And here he was, letting me stay me around, just for that? ǃ But I knew I had to stay silent , or else ._

“ _Dude, with how clingy he is,” Liam realized, “it’s almost like he wants something more.”_

“ _I think kyer rrriiight,” slurred Aiden, realizing he agreed. “He wants t’keep n’touch after I graduate.”_

_I did. He was right._

“ _Duuude.”_

“… _and dja know what that means,” Aiden continued. “He wants t’keep_ CLINGING _t’me , long distance! Just imagine, a whole life where you just can’t get that tick, Connnnnnorrrrrr, j’st can’t get him off your skin! Sucking you dry, every day...”_

_No, I thought._

_I just couldn’t accept what I was hearing._

_But I also couldn’t deny that that was what they were saying._

“ _Damn,” Liam said. “I had no idea he was that awful...”_

“ _He’s baaaaasically a parasite. Clings. Won’t let go.”_

“ _Dude, you gotta say something to him,” said Liam. “A guy can’t live with that. And I bet he’s so fucking creepy, it’s like you’re living with a stalker the whole time. He probably thinks he can_ turn _you or something!”_

“ _I couldn’t do that to him,” said Aiden, trying to compose himself. “I think I’ll just be a man and look out for his feelings and all, till I graduate. It’s not so long.”_

“ _Dude… but he sounds so awful, such a creepy fag, people could think you’re actually gay..” Liam mused. “Why would you do that to yourself?”_

“ _It’s the right thing to do.”_

“ _You’re a good person,” Liam said, clearly impressed. “I admire that.”_

_And with that, the conversation turned to their munchies. They had probably smoked too, as Aiden typically did when he drank. Before long they were off to get a bite._

_As soon as they left, I dropped Rousseau, and I would never pick it back up._

_Aiden would be the reason I voted for Hillary Clinton in the 2008 primary, even though she’s way too much of a centrist neoliberal/capitalist fundamentalist for me, my first ever time voting (to be fair, Obama was a bit of a hyper-centrist “compromise fundamentalist” too...). I never gave Obama a chance, I just couldn’t, “Hope and Change”, I’d heard it all before, and no way was I falling for that crap again._

_(I did vote for Obama in the general both times, of course.)_

_I never told him what I had heard him say. But I did stop hanging out with him after that._

_Maybe I was the reason he and Michaela broke up. I'm not particularly proud that I couldn't resist telling Michaela that I remembered what his dick looked like and that there was once a day I thought "I would be the one wearing his ring" when Michaela didn't even know he had ever been with dudes. It just made me so furious when I saw him with her -- and that he introduced me as some mere acquaintance from school. That's all I was, insignificant in his life. I bet she was really looking forward to that honeymoon thanks to what I said. She claims that wasn't why they broke up, it was that she couldn't keep it all from him. Yeah, whatever._

_I did block him for a bit once, when he asked out of the blue if there was a way he could get Michaela back. No way was I answering that. I told him later I had just decided to deactivate my Facebook account, so I hadn’t seen his message – “sorry man!”_

_Michaela said she was over him and moved on. As she would say. As for me? When I learned he was getting married again -- right after Oliver dumped me! -- ... let's just say I made your alcoholism look tame._

_Aiden and I remain on good terms. Officially, that is. He usually says happy birthday to me on Facebook, I think, although that is going out of style nowadays . I congratulated him when he won his seat in the Connecticut General Assembly, and I had also supported his campaign too . After winning his House seat, h e publicly supported our side in Walsh v. United States._

_I should make a brief aside here: in case you ever end up dealing with Walker again , know he is actually a good man. Well, as good as politicians come. That story I just told doesn’t paint him very well. There were reasons for things that I understand now. Actually, I’ll just tell you, since you already ended up knowing enough about him, and much of this is public knowledge now… _

_It was that time he called me up when I was at your house. You might remember. I was a bit irate about it, but I ultimately agreed to have lunch with him and his wife. He returned Rousseau to me. He’d read it. He realized how it ended up in his closet, because I had left it wrapped up with the card from myself. He asked if I’d heard all that he said. I lied. I told him the truth, after he confessed his own truth to me._

_Aiden would later come out as (I think?) the first openly asexual member of the House. He had wanted to explain this to Michaela, but she never gave him the chance. She was convinced he simply wasn’t attracted to women, and he didn’t blame her. I should’ve realized myself how not-into-it he was with me. How all those guys were him trying to figure out how to get into it, fearing he couldn’t when it mattered with a woman. His wife was the same. At least it worked out for him. I didn’t want Rousseau back… but I accepted his help in our case._

_But I didn’t know this when it mattered. I came to very different, and darker, conclusions about both the world and myself. Aiden was right. I was rotten._

_I didn’t want to die, you see, but I daydreamed about Aiden having to clean up my guts from his closet. Because for years afterward, I would be cleaning up the mess he left of me after he fucking bulldozed my “ultimi flos” that day and then finished it off with an effing vacuum bomb._

_I was rotten inside, I knew it for sure now._

_No one would ever love me, once they saw who I really was._

_I had daydreamed about Aiden’s ring just the day before, but you know what, it’s better that I die alone: no one should have to waste a lifetime suffering me._

_I was full of self-pity. I found a new appreciation for Catullus._

_But I was also no victim._

_No, I was determined: Connor Walsh was no victim. Connor Walsh was going to be a_ predator _._

_I wouldn’t be a “clingy” “parasite”. I wouldn’t be so disgustingly vulnerable again – never again._

_I might be rotten but so was the world. And the world was going to pay for its sins. There would be no Jeff Walsh’s to ruin the lives of all the future Connors of the world, and no Aidens either._

_I was full of rage. And that rage was determined it was going somewhere. Into somewhere. I was a werewolf, I decided. And I couldn’t wait to sink my fangs in after I chose my first target: Liam._

After the word Liam, though, hanging alone as the only word on its line, the bottom of the page was… cut off. With a number of jagged cuts, like someone had used scissors…

\---

[5:20 AM, the previous morning.]

Connor finished his last cut, and lazily dropped the cooking scissors. They hit him in the foot. He angrily kicked those stupid little metal pests aside. There was a bang as they hit the heater. Oops. In addition to the mess he’d made of the table, he’d have to clean up. He sighed. But first things first.

Connor had decided on total honesty when writing this letter. But for some reason, he got the impression that Annalise wouldn’t like _this_ heavy a dose of “honesty”. The material being censored comprised three and a half pages. He grinned in spite of himself, as he watched the flames began to lick the paper, gently at first, but hungrily. Also in spite of himself, he skimmed over it one last time as it began to burn, as if to say goodbye.

_Liam. What a fucking perfect specimen of wholesome, Irish Catholic masculinity. He’s a stud, a fighting man, but he’s civilized, he’s not a boxer like the days of old: he wrestles, Greco-Roman style, with rules and sportsmanship and all. He’ll be wrestling captain in undergrad but also devoted to his studies, he’ll be an engineer, or an architect, I knew it. He’ll build shit, and he’ll be devoted to his woman (a Catholic for sure, god forbid a Protestant, or worse, a “heeb” or a “MOOSLIM!”). So he’ll build a marriage and a family too, a good little Irish Catholic family, with his wife pushing out adorable little pale freckled Catholic black curly haired Irish boys who will one day have sweet asses like his._

_A wholesome future just like the 1600 years of wholesome, since wholesome Saint Fucking wholesome Patrick taught our heathen people, who had once enjoyed all sorts of amorous fruits… to wholesomely stone to death those who are possessed by Satan to “lay with man as one would with woman”. 1600 years of fucking Catholic ancestors smiling down in the clouds above the fucking Jesus-rainbow on Liam’s filial fucking piety, as Liam too will smile down on 1600 more years of beautiful descendants_

_But wait. Something’s wrong. Connor’s here, and he’s here to destroy the “sanctity of marriage”. Whatever pope or politician it was said that… they weren’t right about most gay people, but he sure was right about me!_

_Because Connor Walsh wasn’t going to let the future Jeff oops I mean Liam get that “wholesome” life with a miserable suicidal ex-wife who once thought he loved them and his beautiful freckled sons ending up as messed up as another little Irish Catholic boy we know well. That boy was going back in time – to abort himself._

_I decided: I’m aborting every last one of those future Connors before they are even conceived. My own ancestors and all their fucking worthless values are gonna pay. They’re gonna pay by going extinct. If life starts at conception, then let’s fucking go! Let’s salt the ground before the seeds can even be planted! Connor Walsh is here, and the sanctity of marriage doesn’t stand a fucking chance, because Connor’s gonna fuck it!_

_It didn’t take long._

_Just a week later, I was in Liam’s room. Aiden was texting him like crazy. The two of them had to figure out who it was who had taken that picture of them having sex (Aiden was on bottom – for some reason I think the photographer had waited for that moment, just a hunch, you know ;)). I smile as I reach into Liam’s pocket, turn off his phone, then unzip his pants as I retract my hand, all in one motion._

_Just five minutes later, I am asking him, “so is this how straight you are?”_

_I hold up his flaccid “peen”, as Oli likes to call it. Liam is the sort who is quite long even when flaccid, but it doesn’t hang down straight. I know how to fix that though. I always made sure to scope out my prey well, and I knew what he liked thanks to his real-time porn episodes with Aiden. One finger just far enough but not too far up his anus, the other carefully teasing the tip… his “heterosexuality” was no match for my mastery of his biology._

_And there is nothing more short-term validating than watching someone else’s body become physically unable to hide its approval of you, making them want you, making them cry for more of you._

_Which leads us back to the scene..._

“ _or are you_ this _straight?!”, I say, grinning, as I savor all the eight inches of validation for me that I had mustered out of Liam._

_Yeah, my subconscious was probably saying, Liam, you’re gonna effing validate the shit out of me!!!,_

_and I’m going to leave y ou no choice!, because I’ ve made sure you won’t be able to resist how much you want me!_

_I’m gonna be alone in the end I know, but for one night, you’re going to love the fuck out of me!, and you’re g onna_ crave _me the next day!_

_Because I know everything  you want. Because I can give you  everything  you want. For one night, I  am  everything you want!  And  man am I  gonna give it to you!  !!!!! _

_Before long, Liam is agreeing – he wants me to give it to him. Oh yeah, that’s happening. Aiden can teach but he can’t learn, but Connor? Connor loves nothing better than learning. So by this point , I knew more than well what I was doing._

_Liam, you’re great, I say aloud. You. t ake! it. like! a. man!_

_( Not like that bitch Aiden, he’s so tight, so scared all the time, that wimpy little bitch. What a waste of time he was. I don’t miss him, I swear to myself – not one bit. And his ass is nothing like yours either. )_

_Yeah, I just finished, but no, Liam, we’re not done._

“ _I haven’t had my fill, have you?”_

_  
“ I wouldn’t say no to more,” Liam replies sheepishly._

“ _Didn’t think so,” I declare triumphantly._

_I haven’t had my fill, no shit, I haven’t had a single drop  yet! _

_(And deep inside, of course, I haven’t had my fill – you see, I still feel so cold and empty inside…)_

_Now, when Connor Walsh declares war, he lets the enemy counterattack, because that’s only fair. Of course I like it fair. I always like it fair! Or so I say…_

_Liam would get his turn, I explain patiently, but “only if you can win the match”._

_J ust pin me three times, Liam, and I’m yours!_

_B y this point, I’ m meticulously composed on the outside, but inside, I’m laughing maniacally!_

_Liam wrestle s , and I’m on debate team. You’re gonna win the battle, Liam . And in doing so you’re gonna fall straight into my trap!_

_Fair? My ass!!_

_I’m gonna win this argument . There is no other possible outcome – I’ve made sure. The world isn’t fair, and the sanctity of marriage is going to get a taste of that unfairness._

_Of course, this was always my strategy in debate. My case was laced with traps. I only shine after the foe thinks he is giving his rebuttal, but is actually just setting the seeds of yet another victory for me. And this is no different. Love is war, I knew that now. Aiden had taught me well, without meaning to._

_Of course Liam would win at wrestling, he’s a real man, how could I not give him a chance to prove that? Because he’s so “straight”, and he needs me to know that – of course! (They’re all the same!) So he falls straight into my trap hole!_

_I put up a sincere, tough, fight, as I knew Liam wanted, and as I wanted, so he can feel manly but I also just like a good wrestle. But he could bench me. We both knew it was going to be his turn._

_I’m pinned to the groun d, staring straight into his “ straight” eyes, smiling. “You earned it Liam, good game dude”_

_(Inside I’m thinking: Y ou earned me  , Liam, s o take me!! And now you’ll s how yourself how much you want me ! V alidate me dammit, fill me up, dammit – fill that cold, empty hole that someone left, but let’s not mention who! ) _

_( Yeah, take me. No, Liam, ravage me! Because I’m a man, I can take it, and I ravaged you, and I like it rough, you like it rough, life is short, so GIVE IT TO ME ALREADY DAMMIT!)_

_Okay, he says…_

_..._

_But he just had to be “straightforward”, he says . He’s straight. Didn't see that one coming, now did we?_

_Yeah Liam, I know. Don’t worry. Because this is exactly what men do! They give it, and they take it, like men._

_( Straight men can’t help but want to give it straight to Connor fucking Walsh – give me all! eight. straight! inches. of! straight. y ou!, Liam!!!, straight into me! )_

_All his ancestors in the clouds over that fucking Jesus-rainbow that God promised after the rain or whatever… They’re rolling around in their sky-graves, falling off their clouds and face-planting onto the ground of us mortals, and I’m laughing hysterically at them! They don’t want me fucking their family tree – but sucks to suck, and too bad for them, but I know how to do that sucking so much better than anyone of the “fairer” sex! He wants me!!! _

_( And now, ancestors, you watch in horror as he’s ravaging me, just like I did him, defiling me. I ravaged him like a wolf, but now, ancestors, he sees it : he’  s  a wolf  too  , just like me, and he loves that! H e loves that he’s ravaging a man, not a boring woman who can’t ravage him back. Now he can’t even imagine how bored he would be if I had to use fucking chivalry in the bedroom, he’ll never want to go back! ) _

_(So sorry, ancestors – I hope Liam wasn’t your last hope for your precious genealogy continuing, because your “male line” is going to shrivel up, just like the Walsh male line will. And sorry, Goddy McGodface – you lost, and I won, bitch! The rainbow is mine now, not yours, and I’m ripping it out from your clouds, and the promise is that your castle in the sky is crashing to the ground! )_

_(Because I made your little Christian soldier Liam want Connor fucking Walsh, just the first of the many men he’ll want. And soon, he won’t want you anymore! MISSION: SUCCESS. )_

_I say this part aloud: So lay me, Liam, lay with me like with a woman. But not really like a woman – because now you get it now, they’re fucking lame! I know what you want, that little snake of yours there, it’s telling you what you want. (Ya want the fucking apple, dude! And it tastes fucking GREAT, lemme tell ya!) When are those lovely ladies gonna wrestle you like I can, huh?! Who the hell wants to win every fucking time? By the way, let’s get stoned afterward! I brought my bowl and a lighter, just for you bro!_

_Yeah, Liam – just like that. You’re great at this. Damn, why the hell did I waste so much time with Aiden, he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing – but dude, you fucking do!_

_(So, Liam fucking tell me again how fucking straight you are! Just not too many times, because then I might start laughing maniacally!)_

_( Because, yeah, I can feel your straightness, it’s shooting straight into me. Which means its not in you anymore! )_

_Now that he realizes he can hang onto his fucking toxic masculinity and also  be gay, there’s no need for him to be a pseudo- straight toxic-masculine douchebag, he can the same toxic-masculine douchebag, but also be gay. _

_I won the argument._

_Liam came out the next month, as I knew he would . Nowadays he is, indeed, an architect. He quit wrestling for crew after he started dating a guy on the wresting team (but imagine he kept wresting in non-official settings …), and they’re still together. He did n’ t quit the church, neither of them did it seems, as I still see pictures of both of them in it on my now-and-then Facebook stalking sprees – disappointingly to me, but I can look at the glass half full, and that’s his personal choice._

_\- --_

[Back in the present, the afternoon of that day]

Annalise continued reading on the next page.

_Liam made me feel full for that night, but I still hadn’t had my fill. I would wake up the next morning feeling the same as before, cold and so, so empty._

_If I thought I was a parasite before, I went from a long-term parasite, perhaps a tapeworm, to a short-term one like a lime-disease-carrying deer tick. I like to say I “bone” people. That’s weird, I know, but maybe it’s because what I soon became addicted to, aside from the endorfins, was the validation – literally, that I’d make them bone up._

_Aiden made me feel like Catullus, but he turned me into Lesbia. I don’t think I made it to “trecentos” (300) , but I did lose count. I’d feel whole for a night and wake up in the morning, with the high replaced with a withdrawal including guilt and shame and just… emptiness._

_And then I’d leave him. Every time._

_He’d want me again. I’d come back, maybe. But every time, I’d end up getting bored of him, and find someone new and interesting. I’d leave him , and tell myself what I figured was the story of his life, with the moral being that it was his fault if he thought I gave a shit about his worthless (and often closeted) ass._

_And he’d never learn that the man he met was n’t me. It was a character I had created that I could act, a person he would want. I had many characters I played. None of them were Connor Morgan Walsh._

_And I’d feel alone, and empty. Nothing helped. I couldn’t focus on school, unless I gave myself a reward to work for. And there was only one reward that consistently motivated. So then I’d be in some strangers room, realizing how disgusting they were, telling myself stories about them, and leaving._

_Not that it was just my lovers. My friends too. I know how to act, to make them want me, even platonically, and if they’re not Laurel, it works._ _Michaela_ _knows a guy who loves being her cheerleader_ _but_ _also_ _mocks her and teases her,_ _and sends her spicy memes to tell her she’s a boss,_ _but also a fucking loser_ _. That’s me,_ _actually_ _,_ _but that’s_ _only_ _because at this point the_ _facade_ _that_ _I_ _optimized to please her_ _has more or less become the truth._ _But_ _still,_ _knowing that person isn’t knowing_ _much about_ _me._ _She wouldn’t like the real me: weak, pathetic, clingy._ _She’s so strong._ _She wants an equal. I’m not her equal._ _N_ _ever was,_ _nor_ _will be._

_But you know me, Annalise, because for you, I’ m glass._

_And you told me the truth so I could see it myself: I tell myself ugly stories about people, so that they’ll never get to know me._

_I told you, Annalise: if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have Oliver._

_I would never have met him, but I also wouldn’t have stayed with him. I was staying with him because he was an oasis from the desert of my life, but I told Wes once, I intended to let him go, for his own good, ultimately. But you forced me to see the mask I was wearing, because you ripped it off._

_I had to practically “come out” again to myself again. Coming out as someone who wanted dudes was easy. Coming out as someone who wanted to actually stay with a dude was much harder. Things that I had been afraid to want, because I had just associated them with … pain. But I realized that didn’t have to be me. Still, it was even harder to convince myself someone should want to stay with_ me.

_I don’t really hate everyone as much as I think I do: I hate that they’ll hate me, the real me, the kernel of me that I’d swaddle in masks on top of masks just as my dad taught me to , after Aiden bulldozed me and made me shield myself so that could never happen again._

_I wanted the exact things I claimed I was glad to be free from._

_I came to Middleton thinking I would be some great reformer or whatever, working with you as a Social Justice Whorior to give everyone a fair shot in life, but in my own life I was a two-hundred-faced manipulator who exploited people’s weaknesses to get ahead while leaving them screwed over. The whole time, feeling so alone, but I think I really ended up treating a lot of people like total crap (Oliver disagrees on some of these stories but his view of me is ridiculously skewed positive), because I was sure they were awful people anyways… and what ‘awful’ meant was, people who would stab my hand if I ever reached out to them._

_You showed me a world where that didn’t have to be me. Because it wasn’t me. I’m pretty bad, but I’m not that bad. That wasn’t me, it was a coping mechanism._

_And you showed me the truth that I never wanted to see: what I looked like in the mirror, beneath it all. This is getting really corny, but now I can actually live, and live as myself, so thanks and all._

_In summary:_ _no, Annalise, you did not make the mess in my head._ _On the contrary, Without your help, Oliver could not have cleaned it up._ _Oliver said over and over again, that he wanted me, but I wasn’t listening._

_Thanks. Really._


	9. Interlude IV: Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This "flashback" interlude takes place in November of 2017, after Annalise has gotten Connor out of jail, but before Connor's complaint against the FBI.

_Chinese water torture,_ Connor figured, _is only if someone else is doing it to you._

That did not make the droplets that kept hitting his head every couple of minutes less annoying. Yet he’d been sitting there for two hours straight -- or had it been four? The sun was up now, he knew that much.

Connor had always been fascinated by how exactly his brain malfunctioned. Rather than actually getting up, he just cursed the shower – each time. The best part was that he had known how irrational he was each time, and still not moved.

But then, Connor figured, when does that end? And of course, he thought wryly: I’m irrational to be knowingly irrational to not fix my irrationality _about_ _not fixing_ _my_ _irrationality._

Connor laughed aloud. There was only one boring way to be a normal, functioning person, he figured, but as for ways to be _dysfunctional…_ the possibilities seemed infinite.

In the shitty mirror above the sink, he saw someone resembling himself grinning, teeth out, like a little boy. _Of course I’m happy_ , he thought as watched himself start laughing hysterically, _my possibilities are fucking endless!ǃǃ_

He was standing up now, he realized. And had gotten out of the shower, apparently. _Of course I only do the right thing by accident._

The choice was now to return to the shower or not. He left the bathroom.

That stupid shower-head had never worked. The shower itself was barely three feet wide; its dripping seemed impossible to fix. It was always such _loud_ dripping too. Stupid fucking house. This lovely old _chalet_ of his was so tasteful that Connor wasn’t sure if it belonged in a horrifyingly bad comedy about fratboy lifestyles, or a comedically bad horror set in an abandoned frathouse. He affectionately patted the shitty couch as he passed.

But he had come back to this little masterpiece for the first time since jail, that part of “today” before the sun had set. Connor rubbed his eyes. Yesterday still hadn’t ended.

Rationally speaking, it had been a “good” day. He and Annalise had finished the final draft of the complaint against “ _United States_ ” yesterday morning, filed it. A momentous day. The beginning of a war. It was time.

Yeah, a “war”. There it was again. The smell of blood in his nose, his fists clenching. And he realized has sore his knuckles were, his nails were, the scab left from tearing off his hangnail… His dick was sore too.

But this moment was historic, Connor thought. _Well, for my life at least,_ he corrected himself.

Couldn’t be so cocky. Sure, Annalise was a force of nature. But Connor Walsh? _That Connor guy_ , _he’_ _s a_ _dud_. The sort who failed out of law school, but got back in through nepotism. The sort who would be so desperate to see himself as a good guy that he would break the law to get a mother her son back, but not know what the fuck he was doing, and almost get her deported instead.

 _Well,_ Connor thought as he wandered aimlessly into his room , _I’m the client. Annalise is at the helm._

Connor’s eyes landed on Aiden’s old lacrosse stick. He laughed joylessly. He’d been doing that a lot lately. _After all these years, Oliver still thinks I played lax_.

One of those lies that remained uncorrected out of nothing but laziness. Connor had never once played lacrosse in his life, outside of grade school gym class. It was that day, Aiden’s birthday. He had left _Du contrat social_ in Aiden’s closet. And stolen the lacrosse stick.

The moment when all those memories with Aiden became ‘the past’, Connor had decided to take something to remember them on _his_ terms, not Aiden’s, because it was up to _him, Connor_ , whether they “meant something”. Better yet that Aiden was attached to it. (Connor was never able to figure out _why_ that particular lacrosse stick mattered to Aiden… _but he didn’t care_.) Because Aiden had taken away something huge from Connor-- it was only _fair_ he lost something that actually mattered to him too. Forever.

Connor considered giving it back to Aiden. _After all these years._ But he _really_ didn’t want to. _Fuck it._ Connor grabbed the lacrosse stick, marched down the stairs, and slammed it into the kitchen trash bin.

Connor saw that fucking book, _Du Contrat Social,_ resting on the table.

Aiden had returned it earlier today. Or rather, “yesterday”. For some reason he couldn’t understand – probably didn’t _want_ to understand – Connor felt rather ashamed for accepting it “back”. He picked it up and chucked it into the trash. Then he walked over, pulled it out, dropped it in his bag. _It’s good reading,_ he reasoned.

 _Whatever_. At least they had an ally in the legislature now. Connor had met “Walker (D-CT)” yesterday. Aiden had pledged his unwavering support, blablabla, all that politician drivel. Connor wasn’t quite sure how exactly the freshman legislator could help. But he was sure Aiden would give the case publicity, which would mean scrutiny. They couldn’t just throw it out.

 _And Aiden’s district will know how ‘woke’ he is, that’s for sure_ . He’s not just some freshman representative, he’ll be the first face in Congress supporting this _cause_ to defend _the rights of citizens from this assault on the constitution by a shadowy and corrupt security clique._ Something like that, in his special eloquent Aiden way of saying it. And so people will start to recognize that goddamn beautiful face of his. How _convenient_.

And that led Connor’s mind back to how he'd ended up at “the house”.

He hadn’t intended to start seeing Oliver again -- had vowed _not_ to, in fact. Calling Oliver was the first thing he did after lunch.

Why?

Maybe it was that he loved telling Oliver when he felt he had accomplished something. And he had … hadn’t he? But was that really why he had called Oliver?

_No_ , Connor thought darkly. _Something, that_ _kernel of truth in me, that little fuck, Connor Morgan Walsh…_ _that doofus just_ _wanted to_ _drag_ _Oli_ _in_ _. Again._

Annalise couldn’t blame herself for abusing alcohol, and Connor knew he couldn’t blame himself abusing Oliver. It was a chemical dependency after all. _It’s always nice,_ Connor thought, _when science g_ _ives_ _you an excuse to be a little shit_. But Oliver deserved better.

And yet, there he was. It had all gone so fast. (Maybe he could also blame the fact that he’d gotten a whopping three hours of sleep total over the previous two nights as well.)

It hadn’t taken long for the "catching up" to devolve into cuddling and rewatching Thorn Birds. Nostalgia. Oliver missed the “good old times”. The “good” old times, he had said. _Good_?ǃ

“Good” was what it felt like to abuse your favorite drug again, for sure. Not that “good” really lasted.

First was the insatiable hunger. Being in Oliver’s arms again felt so safe. It was something he never wanted to end, except that he had ended it.

Connor remembered how it had felt as he was biting lower Oliver’s lip, so soft but so firm, as Oliver’s tongue skimmed the top of his. Connor bit his lip as he remembered it. He wanted so badly to return to that moment.

But that moment was itself a slippery slope.

Before long his fingers were fondling Oliver’s back, massaging his traps, making their way to the lats. Forget the Thorn Birds, Connor’s fingers had had other ideas of what was important.

Connor wanted to tell himself that starting that up had all been his subconscious acting, just his tired mind unable to control his body. He couldn’t fool himself.

He recalled saying something complementary, probably about Oli's body. He forgot what it was. Not like it mattered. He knew, as long as he whispered it in Oli’s ear with just the right amount of breath, Oli would always stiffen up.

Connor had been famished, had forgotten what it was like to have the desperate thirst quenched – but not satisfied… _At least I can accept it,_ he thought. _All I am is an animal._

What he couldn’t accept was how much enjoyed remembering the rest…

… Oliver reaching under his shirt, planting his hand on Connor’s lumbar, his lower back, pulling him in… Connor strengthening his grip on Oliver’s back, clinging almost desperately. Pressing himself into Oliver, feeling all eight great inches of Oliver grazing his hip through pants, Connor’s own angry rod quickly filling the space between their abdomens…

Surrounded by Oliver everywhere, except his right hand, which was now conquering territory further and further south along Oliver’s back, disarming Oliver’s belt, slipping into the fortress of Oliver’s pants, pushing forward bit by bit, slowly, meandering, trying to see how many involuntary noises he could get out of Oliver this time…

…His middle finger hadn’t forgotten where the gold was buried though. Oliver’s familiar cute squeak as it penetrated him…

As always, next was more incremental stripping, then “fun”, and then, in this case, round two, the shower remix.

Connor had been in a desert so long, it was no time before he was trying to drink the whole fucking oasis.

Yet suddenly, he had found he couldn’t.

\--

_Annalise’s house, the previous evening_

“So...yeah,” Oliver continued. “We’re in the shower and uhh, you know… but… ”

“Since when are there any ‘but’-s when _Connor_ has sex?” Annalise scoffed. Oliver didn’t blame her for misunderstanding. He had spared her most of the details, but it was, after all, Connor they were talking about. Only Oliver had seen Connor refusing sex ever since his time as an informant.

“Well, there are _always_ two _butts_ involved… Well, at least two,” Oliver said guiltily, trying to lighten the mood. Annalise rolled her eyes.

Oliver continued. “But, well, before long he’s screaming, shoving me away, telling me to get away from him… Then he comes and kinda wraps himself back into my arms...”

_\--_

The whole scene continued running through Connor’s head. He wasn’t sure what had snapped.

Screaming. Shoving Oliver back _._ Opening his eyes to see Oliver’s shock as he crashed into the wall. He yelled at the poor fool to stay away from him. Just get away.

But then, _of course,_ he had flung himself onto Oliver again, latched onto him like a tick. Wrapped Oliver around him like Oliver was some mere blanket. Used Oliver’s chest to bury his face in, like some pillow. And Oliver rubbed his back, tried his best to soothe him. _If only Oliver could love himself the way he loves me._

It took awhile, but Connor had come back to his senses and pushed Oliver away again, more gently this time.

“You can’t do this,” Connor had said.

“Can’t do what?”

“Be with me. You deserve better. I can’t stand that. I can’t stand doing this to you. Please,” Connor had begged. “Don’t let me.”

_\--_

“And then,” Oliver said, “he starts thrashing around again. Pounding the wall. Screaming. Says I have to leave. Go somewhere, anywhere. It’s not safe here, he says. He’ll hurt me, he says. He can’t bear seeing me, he won’t be able to calm himself down until I’m safe. From him, he says.”

Oliver was scared. He’d never seen Connor like that before.

He wondered again if he had been wrong to leave Connor all alone. What had happened to him?

–

“I’m not kicking you out of your own house”, Connor had said. “Just … leave for a few hours. I’ll be fine…. I’ll pull myself together. It’s not the first time. Annalise has seen it all before. But you have to leave.”

Oliver had protested:“I need to be here for you.”

“It’s not fair,” he’d continued. He’d be worrying the whole time. “It’s your home too. _Ours_.”

 _False_.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Connor had promised. “You’ll see, I’ll be fine, I promise. But you need to go. You just … can’t be here right now. Listen, Oliver. I know what I need right now”

And so Oliver left. But not before snatching all four bottles of sleeping pills from behind the mirror. And then rummaging through the house and grabbing various items to take to his car. Connor knew the house and all the (annoying) noises it made well. He was fairly sure he knew everything Oliver was taking. The rat poison. All the kitchen knives. All the cleaning fluids. Oliver had confiscated an entire drawer, presumably the one that had the hammer and drill buried in it, loudly yanking it out of the kitchen cabinet and flinging the door open as he marched it off to his car. Connor couldn’t help but smile as he thought about it. No matter how morbid the context, Oliver managed to be cute.

\--

“So I came here.”

Annalise asked how he had known where she was living, but stopped herself mid-sentence. Probably realizing, wisely: she did not want to know.

Oliver clarified that it wasn’t _her_ phone that was sending his computer activity updates every ten minutes. Connor’s phone alone contained more than enough info to determine Annalise’s residence, so Annalise didn’t need to know he _also_ had remote access to every text message her phone had ever sent.

More important were the questions Oliver needed answered.

Annalise quickly confirmed what Oliver already knew from the prison facility’s server: Connor’s lie about solitary confinement was a lie. No doubt he had said it to conjure up Nate’s dad in Oliver’s mind, make Oliver fear for his safety – _of course_ he’d called it ‘the shoe’.

“Well… he’s been staying with you. How has he… been all this time?”

Annalise clearly had not “seen it all before” from him. She was concerned, and asked Oliver to go over it all again. When he did, she looked visibly relieved. Somehow.

“Why don’t you take a look yourself? Tell me what you see,” Annalise said, as she led him out of the kitchen and opened a door.

Oliver knew instantly this was where Connor had been staying. It had been awhile, but there was a sort of comforting familiarity to once again have a good dose of _Connor_ in his nose. _And_ _the lavender._

The room was more _Connor_ than Connor himself in other ways too. Sheets chaotically twisted together on the side of the bed. Oliver chuckled. Connor even hogged the blankets from _himself._ Clothes strewn everywhere. Stacks of books, always in threes, on every surface but the floor. Where there weren’t books, there were folders or stacks of paper, not a single paper out place, but stacked in totally random places.

Socks used as bookmarks. A printed picture of Agent Lanford taped to the wall in front of the desk, with a rather hideous half-moustache – and half beard, on the _other_ side – drawn on his face, with what looked to be white crayon. A whiteboard with a message, in all caps, reminding Connor to block Oliver from his phone “again”.

“Notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“Nope,” Oliver said. “So… no violent outbursts… ever?”

“No,” Annalise said. “Except the time I got him a piñata. But you see, it was _in the shape of Donald Trump_.”

Oliver was rather sorry to have missed the sight of Connor, blindfolded, probably drunk, swinging wildly at a stuffed effigy of Comrade Trampoff. Annalise must have laughed her head off. If only he could have seen that, instead of what he had just seen back at the house from Connor.

“So today with Connor… that outburst… it just came from nowhere,” Oliver concluded.

Annalise stared thoughtfully at the wall above Connor’s desk.

“The night he came with the divorce paper… he said that if we stay together, the trauma is going to follow us forever,” Oliver recalled, his voice rising. “Do you think it was _me_ that set him off? What if –”

“Oliver, Oliver, Oliver” Annalise cut in, her gleaming eyes rolling sideways to meet his. “You think he can’t see _you_ because he gets flashbacks? He chose to move in with _me._ ”

“But--”

“What you saw was all an act. He’s a drama queen,” Annalise sighed. “He thinks he needs to protect you from himself. But can’t quit you.”

“I can’t quit _him_ ,” Oliver confessed. “I mean, I probably do more stalking than the KGB.”

“And I more vodka,” Annalise said wryly. “Can’t quit that either.”

\--

 _Basically,_ Connor figured as he paced aimlessly through the house, _Oliver is Annalise. I’m the booze._

_He can’t resist, because I always seduce him into letting me poison him, killing him a little bit each day. That’s me. Poison._

Oliver wouldn’t be returning this early in the morning. Connor collapsed onto the couch and, despite his soreness, probably would have resumed procrasturbating the trek through the windy streets back to Annalise’s place… were it not for the infuriatingly cheerful jingle that burst out of his phone. He read the alarm’s name. _Right._ He knew he wouldn’t forgive himself if he didn’t attend to _that._

Connor quickly threw on clothes he were probably his, and gathered everything he’d brought to the house. He was just about to leave, when he remembered to check the liquor cabinet. Sure enough, it was still there. Bourbon, bought to be opened after graduation, but nobody living in the house liked Bourbon. Connor knew Oliver would neither finish it nor discard it. He shoved it into his backpack, left Oliver a $20 in its place, and made for the door.

\---

_Annalise’s house, the next day, now a bit later than when Connor headed out_

Annalise walked into the kitchen. Whatever Oliver was baking, it smelled good. Maybe she’d have to nab the recipe. Thanksgiving was in just two days.

He’d asked her permission to cook yesterday. Apparently he’d grabbed a pan, a baking tray and various necessary ingredients from his house before he left. In his haste he’d forgotten cinnamon; she told him he could use hers.

He was drumming on the table top. It was his song that had drawn her out of bed, not the aroma.

_Could’t’be I was the one that’ye held, so deep in the night?_

_On th’back staircase y’fell t’your knees, with tears in your eyes..._

She didn’t mind Oliver’s beautiful voice echoing through her halls at all.

_All that you suffered, all the disease..._

_You couldn’t hide it, hide it fr’m’me..._

Oliver’s tenor had little affectation, no vibrado, but somehow also full of emotion. It was pure, crisp, unwavering, almost crystalline.

_All alone scared in your room, would’ye swear there’s nobody home..._

_On’th’bed laying awake, as’y’d pray she’d leave you alone…_

He sounded like a professional.

_O let the darkness, swallow me whole!_

_I need to find you, need you to know--_

Oliver abruptly stopped.

“It’s Salt and the Sea, by The Lumineers,” he explained. “There’s this person I lost... The first verse runs through my head sometimes when I think about him.”

Annalise didn’t think she needed to ask who.

“It’s not Connor,” Oliver corrected her.

“He still hasn’t come back,” Annalise said. She didn’t want to say she was starting to get worried.

“It’s okay,” said Oliver. “I know where he’s going.”

“Going?”

Oliver picked up his phone.

\--

_Lower Manhattan, near the Financial District_

Michaela glanced glumly in the direction of her phone. Why couldn’t she just watch her baking show in peace?

She’d never called in sick before. Today was the first. Ever. She wasn’t sick. But this was a day for self-care and self-love.

She fished her cellphone out from the heap of blankets she was swimming in. Incoming from “Connor FUCKING Walsh”. She knew what it would be about if he was calling today of all days, and was certain it’d do neither of them any good. She muted it.

–

_Philadelphia_

Oliver set his phone back down. “Actually, he’s already there.”

Annalise stared quizzically.

“Today,” Oliver explained as he pulled the snickerdoodles out of the oven, “is Asher’s birthday. Would’ve been.”

–

Michaela wasn’t picking up.

“Don’t worry,” Connor explained as he stroked the grave. “It’s because she loves you. She always throws herself into work. It’s how she copes. Today, she’s going to work the hardest she’s ever worked.

“And she’ll go far, man, she’ll go really far.” Connor gave Asher a reassuring smile. “You’ll be so proud – trust me. She’s still broken without you, I know it, but she’ll keep going. Because of you. _For_ you.

“You know, Asher... we rewatched that dumbass video of yours. Don’t need no teacher, bye Felicia, you being all capitalist douchebro, money everywhere… y’know. Somehow we love it now.

“And not just once. We watched for hours on end one time. Had to drag her away from it…

“I know you hate that video. Because of what happened at that party, I know.

“I can’t forgive that,” Connor confessed. “Because I just can’t believe it. The Asher I knew was a dumbfuck, but that’s just not him.

“But even if it’s true, it’s not fair. You can’t be judged for the worst day of your life. The Asher I knew wasn’t a perfect guy, yeah. Your jokes were awful. You had _no_ fucking taste. Your parties were fucking embarrassing. But thanks for those. Really. I mean it.

“I’ll always remember how we finally beat Michaela and Oli at beer pong,” Connor said, laughing, reminiscing. Michaela was just as good at beer pong as literally everything else, and Oliver was no pushover either, especially under the threat of being the one who made Michaela lose. However, their game turned out to be reliably awful if they had to try to ignore Connor and Asher drunkenly humping each other as they made their shots.

“You also screwed my mom at my wedding, what the fuck dude,” Connor hastily added, shaking his head reproachfully, punching the grave playfully. “You better have given her a fucking _amazing_ time, or I _will_ hunt you down in hell. Hope you’ve said hi to my bro Satan like you promised you would.

“I’ll join the party sooner or later. But I’m doing this for you each year I’m alive,” Connor vowed. “You don’t exist in any way whatsoever in this world anymore now, I know. You’re not in a firepit, nor the body of a seaslug. But in whatever alternate reality or whatever that may or may not exist… you better be having a fucking _great_ thirtieth, Asher.

Connor poured the Bourbon on the grave, watching as it trickled down as he downed a mouthful himself.

“Thanks for wasting half your evenings on me during that semester I failed out. Thanks for being there for me like I never was for you. Always tried your best for all of us. That’s the Asher I knew.

“But everyone wrote you off, Asher,” Connor lamented, the words sounding familiar, like lyrics to a song he’d forgotten. “And I let you roll in the filth.

“You belonged with us. In our house. It was never whole without you… It was never whole, man…

“I loved you Asher. And I never got to say that. Or how much I needed you. Or that you’re not a loser. Stop telling yourself that. No more ‘loser’.”

Connor corked the bottle and slammed it into the ground angrily.

“No more ‘Doucheface’.” Connor banged the ground with it again, harder this time.

“You were a good man, Asher!” Connor cried out, striking the ground again and again, harder still each time. “You’re a good man, Asher! Ya hear me Asher?!!”

The Connor stood himself up in silence, felt the bitter November wind racing across his skin, through his hair. Seeping into his veins.

“You were going to see that,” Connor said softly. “We all loved you so much. Michaela was back with you. It would’ve been the four of us, like it should’ve been. You’d’ve been happy...”

Tears welled in Connor’s eyes.

“But that was stolen from you,” Connor concluded, his voice hardening. “And from me,” he whispered to the wind, his eyes glaring, wide-open, straight at the sun, accusing it.

“You were a good man, but I...” Connor said, his lips forming a guilty smile in front of clenched teeth. “I’m not. I’ve done things you can’t even imagine. No, not Sam. It’s ‘since you been gone’, _bro_. And you have no idea what I’m capable of.”

 _Yes,_ Connor thought savagely, _I’m not done._ He withdrew the Swiss army knife from his pocket, pierced his left thumb.

 _You’re a good man, Asher, so you probably don’t want it,_ Connor thought as he pressed his bleeding thumb into the soil where what was left of Asher was decomposing. _But too bad, because I lost you, and I_ will _have my vengeance,_

“ _From the destruction, out of your flames,_ ” Connor began singing, unsure how he knew this tune, shocking himself in his sleep-deprived fog, swaying uncontrollably as he did. “ _You need a villain. I’ve got a name.”_

 _Your blood,_ Connor vowed, _won’t go unanswered._ And the best part was, Lanford knew what was coming. Even if no one else did.

Connor licked his canines. The smell of blood. Usually he hated that smell, hated that side of himself. But fuck being a good person. _It’s too late._ Because Connor welcomed that flame, the sense of purpose.

He felt solid at last, he felt strong.

He felt… horrified. _This isn’t about Asher._ He collapsed.

Hit his head on the grave.

Struggled to stand up again, everything was spinning. Picked up something glass. Drank a mouthful of something sharp out of it. It burned but that was good.

He glared angrily at the sun again. He saw his right hand cover his eyes. Felt his left hand swinging. A hideous shriek escaped his mouth as he smashed the bottle into something hard.

He opened his eyes. He gently cleared the glass off from the top of Asher’s grave with his foot.

  
“I’m so sorry Asher,” he cried, ashamed, as he watched the whiskey trickle into the ground. He slumped against the tombstone pathetically, flinging his arms around it, his face resting on top. He was relieved that no one could see him, until the voice behind him made him jump. He spun around.

“This isn’t what Asher wants,” Annalise said, before taking a bite of something. Connor hastily composed himself. 

“He’d hate to see you like this,” Oliver agreed.

Connor thoughtlessly gobbled up the cookie Oliver offered to him. 

“Either I got the recipe right this time,” Oliver said, “or you are drunk and starving without breakfast.”

Connor suppressed a grin. “Both.”

He seized another cookie from the Tupperware.

“You’re right,” Connor agreed. “He’d probably want us to mourn him with a massive party.”

“The word is ‘rager’,” Oliver said.

“Right,” Connor said. “With a stripper.”

They both looked at Annalise, who raised a slightly judgmental eyebrow. Oliver laughed. Connor couldn’t help laughing too for a second.

His gaze moved from Oliver to Annalise and back. “So that’s where you went.”

“Yes, and I know everything. Not that she told me. You left the case files _everywhere,_ ” Oliver said.

“You _did_ ,” Annalise agreed, with an infuriatingly nagging tone.

“Connor,” Oliver said. “You said we’d talk. Come home with me. Let me make you breakfast. You look awful.”

“I’m sorry, really, Oli, but I can’t. You know now, I have a lot of work to do.”

“It can wait,” Annalise said. “Connor, you don’t see it, but he told me everything. This man here, he’s broken without you. In ways you don’t even know. He needs you.”

“It’s you or the 8-ball for me,” Oliver explained. “And that’s not far off from the truth.”

“This is _so_ fucked up.” Connor shook his head in disbelief. “All I hear is that I’ve ruined you even worse than I thought.”

“No, Connor, _I_ broke me,” Oliver said. “The trauma follows us both either way, and you’re the only one who can relate. Maybe you’ll hurt me, but you can’t see how bad it hurts when you’re not there.”

“And cut the theatrics Connor. I know about your little ‘episode’,” Annalise said. She continued: “This man you say you care so much about, you nearly gave him a heart attack. Don’t you know what it’s like to worry, that fear that you won’t be there when he needs you?”  
  


Connor pretended to ignore her. “Okay, I’ll come home with you, Oliver,” he relented. “Us _bromos_ can’t be fighting on Asher’s birthday. But stay out of our case. And this is just for today.”

“I”m his friend too,” Oliver said, looking at Asher’s grave. “I want justice too. I deserve to be involved. You don’t have to sleep with me, but you can’t keep me out of this.”

“I briefed him on it all yesterday,” Annalise said. Connor shot the traitor an angry glare.

“I’ll come today, but I’m still staying at Annalise’s,” Connor warned.

“We’ll see how much longer I tolerate your messes,” Annalise retorted.

" _My_ messes?" Connor retorted incredulously. "My room is the cleanest in the house."

Oliver's feeble attempts to hide his amusement were hilarious. Of course, Connor knew, "his" room was not "clean" by any means -- it was just the only one with a _method_ to its madness.

"I'll be out before Christmas, just like we agreed," Connor reassured Annalise.

"You'd better be," she growled back. Oliver gave up trying to suppress his laughter. They all laughed.

“Just promise me Oli, no funny business, nothing illegal,” Connor said as they walked to the car, leaving Annalise at the grave.

“Okay, no funny business,” Oliver said, his grin not quite reassuring. His hands were behind his back.

“You’re not seriously crossing your fingers are you?!” Connor demanded. “What are we, eight?”

Oliver brought his hands, cross-fingered indeed, to the front.

“It’s too cold,” Oliver sang. “Can’t seem to pull them apart. Help?”

Connor rolled his eyes. Ridiculous. Plagiarism, actually. As he soon as uncrossed Oliver’s fingers, Oliver predictably seized his wrists, and pulled him in.

And he fell into Oliver’s arms a bit too eagerly, his chin nestling into Oliver’s chest. It was warm. So much nicer than the freezing wind. He didn’t want Oliver to let go. Oliver didn’t. Connor hated how okay he was with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to the song that Oliver was singing (on the band's official channel) here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hrlYnowqPWg  
> It's a great song, one of my favorites, but I do warn you, the video is pretty emotional.


	10. Section V: I told Lanford [Fruit from the Poisonous Tree -- Part I]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this one. This and the next chapter were probably the hardest for both Connor and myself to write (and I'll probably be making some changes after posting to be honest). Let me know what you think!!

_**7:41 PM, in the hospital** _

The few seconds seemed like an eternity.

Oliver could’ve sworn that at least a minute passed between each of the little clanks the wheels of the stretcher made as it passed a tile on the floor.

Yet the stretcher was also moving too fast for Oliver to see if he could make out breathing in the ventilator. And he had tried hard.

But the curtains closed abruptly on that eternity, as the staff pushing the stretcher charged through a pair of doors. And they swung back shut, stealing the stretcher out of Oliver’s sight. He wished he could have followed, but he knew he had to let them do their jobs.

“It’ll be fine”, they’d told him.

Oliver hated those words. He knew better. Knew better about stuff like this. He’d made sure to be prepared with knowledge, if nothing else. In cases like this, the patient died a quarter of the time after admission to the hospital. And there was nothing he could do now.

\--

_**7:41 AM, 12 hours earlier, Walsh-Hampton residence** _

Connor peeked out of his blanket cocoon and stared glumly at the clock. 7:41 AM. The digits glaringly red, an angry red. The 7, the 4, the 1, they were reprimanding him, in unison. He shrank away from them, back into his cocoon.

It didn’t totally block out the young sunlight though. It was that accursed time called “morning”. Or perhaps “mourning”, mourning the fact that the chance to go back to sleep was for all intents and purposes gone.

 _You have to get up,_ he reminded himself.

His body disagreed strongly, refused to move. It was pretty comfortable being in a burrito of three blankets.

 _You just have to finish the job,_ he told himself. He’d already finished the hardest part. Section V. The remaining sections would be easier. Oliver wouldn’t be reading that, or the next three sections – and that was for the best.

His break had been well-deserved, Connor tried to reassure himself, gently. But now, he had to work. Couldn’t let this business go unfinished.

_And then_ , he told himself, _you’ll be_ _finished_ _._ That motivated him a bit, at least. And soon he’d be able to put himself to rest, at long last.

\---

_**6:16 PM, in the C &G offices** _

A sharp, angry, staccato buzz battered Oliver’s leg. There was only one thing his phone made that particular buzz for. It was _PETER._ The neural net’s acronym stood for Purchases, Emails and Text Exigency Recognition.

PETER – the name of the boy who cried wolf. He still remembered asking Connor what the boy’s name was in that fable. Oliver never remembered details like that, but folklore was one of Connor’s many eccentric interests.

Why did he ask, Connor had wondered. “Oh, was just curious, it escaped me,” Oliver’d fibbed. Of course he wouldn’t tell Connor why. For every reason Connor hated secrets, there was a more compelling one why he couldn’t be told.

So Oliver had let Connor, who couldn’t even properly use a Linux terminal, think this was one of his “nerdy” side projects that wasn’t worth trying to understand.

And Oliver had paid for the AWS unit with the computing power necessary to run the algorithm with money from a private bank account Connor was unaware of, the money coming from a certain someone Connor didn’t even know Oliver was still in contact with. Oliver’s computer was quite powerful, but he took all the precautions he could. The situation would have to be controlled if necessary. No unexpected variables. Only one other person could know, and that wasn’t Connor.

–-

_**5:** **20 PM, 56 minutes earlier, in the woman’s bathroom at C & G.** _

Annalise groggily opened her eyes. Some sound, coming from beside her. She had a headache. Felt like a hangover. Odd. Had she been drinking?

She was on a toilet. The sound again. Her phone. “ _VITAMINS”._

Hadn’t she already taken them? Annalise had an acute sense of déja vu. It was always like that with vitamins. You felt like you’d taken them, but you were remembering taking them yesterday. She shoved three down her mouth.

On her lap, a letter. What was this?

Connor’s writing. Another wave of déja vu. Staring at her was “Section _§_ V: I Told Lanford”. Something was coming back to her but she pushed it away. Whatever it was, she didn’t want to think about it. She didn’t want to read this, but, almost like a zombie, she didn’t try to stop herself from doing so.

“It’s … not…. your … fault”, she read aloud. The words were smack in the middle of the page. The huge letters were each written in beautiful calligraphy. Each word, a line.

_It’s_

_Not_

_Your_

_Fault_

\---

_Dear Annalise,_

_Good job. You made it this far. I mean it. You’ve put up with a lot of me in this letter. It’s hard – I know. Because it was hard as fuck for me to write._

_And that’s why I know that this section is the hardest of all – for you and me both. But it is also the one that is most necessary of all for you to read. Because it’s that thing we can never talk about, that box that, if we let Pandora open, never fails to ensnare us between the Scylla of guilt and the Charybdis of blame. Neither of us can even touch on the topic without getting hysterical. But I need you to hear me, and hear me clear. _

_**It’s** _

_**Not** _

_**Your** _

_**Fault** _

_Annalise, say it to yourself. Aloud, if possible. Do it for me. Please._

_“It’s … not… my… fault,” Annalise heard someone say. Who was that?_ _Who were they talking to in a bathroom?_

_Say it again._

_“It’s… not… my...”_

_The voice_ _really_ _sounded like her own. Odd. Annalise groggily rubbed her eyes as her vision blurred up again._

_Annalise, I remember the St. Vincent case. It was the second case that we worked for you, when we were 1Ls._

_“The challenge,” you said, “is in establishing your witness’ credibility. You have to show them being real, even critical of your client. Be as punishing as possible. No topic is off limits.”_

_When I say “it’s not your fault”, I’m pretty sure you know what I’m talking about. I’ll get to that soon. But as a credible witness, so I need to be real._

_So I’m going to be as punishing as I need to, because I fucking love you. You don’t like that? Well tough, I love you, even if you can’t find the mercy to love yourself. And I’m going to make you see, that that_ _was not your fault._

_Was the leadup to it your fault?_

_Yes._

_It’s your fault that you broke your promise to us. You’d protect us, you told Michaela and I. And the moment we needed you, where were you? You fled to Mexico. The night we got framed for Asher._

_There is no getting around that. And fuck you. You really have some nerve, after all we’ve been through together, that whenever you want to win an argument with me, you bring up the fact that I “turned on you”, that I “blamed everything on you”. Fuck you. Because you know I can never respond to that, that can't remind you of all the fucking hell I went through because I took that deal, when I thought you were gone, because you were gone, because you had left without even warning us. Because that would lead to a discussion about that. _

_Because we both that would be way too far._

_But no more bandaids. Surgery_

_._

_You’re far harsher on Michaela than on me. But neither of us wanted to “sell you out”. We had no choice. They had our fingerprints, fake footage of us leaving out at the right time to kill Asher, fake footage of us entering… And we didn’t even know if you were still alive._

_That wouldn’t have happened if you had been there. You would have told us you’d fix it all. And you would. Or you’d try. And I’d have believed in you, even if I’d yell at you. Instead, there I was alone in a cell, having a panic attack. Alone with my dad’s shitty lawyers. I probably would have even had to take that deal, had you been there._

_And when I got home, after learning about your little mosey down to Mexico, I burnt your old recommendation letter. Crying. In the corner of a room. Reading it to myself one last time. With a cheap-ass lighter from the gas station._

_We both know it’s bullshit when you say that. I don’t need to remind you that I was willing to divorce Oliver to stop him from testifying against you. You’d be right to that I wanted him to find someone he actually deserved, not hold out for a shit like me while I was in jail. But the reason I got the divorce papers was to stop his testimony against you._

_I also probably don’t need to tell you that I, nevertheless, lied on the stand for you. Of course both you and I fucking hated that I couldn’t find the courage on the stand to tell the actual truth. When Laurel flipped, I was consumed by something… something like envy. You have no effing idea how badly I wanted to just tell the truth. Of course, what I said on the stand to you was also sincere -- you are a bully, and I was pretty effing mad -- but I hated what I was doing too. I had too, to protect Oliver. And I had wanted so badly to go back and recant my testimony, tell the whole truth, everything; I begged Oliver to let me – but, as Michaela told me, I’d be putting Oli in jail if I did that. I think you understand that, can forgive that. _

_Still, though, even if I didn’t have the courage to tell the truth, I had the courage to perjure myself for you too even as I perjured myself against you. “Why did you do it?” the ADA asks. I just wanted to make you happy, I say. Let’s just not mention all the times you threatened to send Oli to jail if I didn’t cooperate. Or the time Bonnie told Michaela and I that we’d be the next dead bodies._

_You usually refer to Michaela as “that bitch”. I have to be real. It’s funny, because she calls you that too. And you know what I want to say, every time? You’d do the exact fucking same in her position – as she would in yours. (maybe that is why you hate each other, actually…?) This doesn’t make it okay, but you can’t judge someone’s whole life by the worst day in it – that’s also something you taught me._

_Despite Mexico, I didn’t, no matter how much you insist,“turn on you”. I didn’t give up on you. Instead, Annalise, I was willing to do awful things. Yes, I did it because of you. Not to be a “good person” – “good people” do not throw people under the bus. I did it for you – but of my own free choice._

_I’ll tell you how it happened. You still don't know, after all these years -- though I must confess this is probably just me procrastinating getting to the heart of the matter. But you don't want to talk about that yet, do you? I can feel it, you don't. So let's get this out of the way first._

_I still remember it like yesterday. I poured whiskey for the three of us-- me, Oli, Michaela. I poured another one out on the carpet for Asher – tradition, you know. We're mourning him. Gabriel has to barge in, the fucking tool._

_“I know who killed Asher!” he insists._

_When I go the door, I’m ready. I couldn’t be passive, this could be my opportunity – I knew. Finger poised on the “record” button my phone hidden in my pocket, like the trigger of a gun. Ready to pounce._

_He repeats himself. “Who,” Michaela demands. “It was the FBI.” The idiot blabbers on – he thought it was Laurel at first, all because she had brown hair (you thought this was a promising student?!!). B ut his idiocy doesn’t make what he’s saying any less vital. He recognized Pollack from her earring._

_I remember: I’m replaying th e recording I’d furtively made of him as I run. I w as originally going on a run to relieve even some tiny part of the all the stress, b ut by then I was running from the black van following me. I was sure it was the FBI. I still am._

_“The FBI wants to take down Annalise, so they killed a guy informing against her,”_ _he says. “You guys could be next. I just came her to warn you.”_

_What had I been thinking? That’s what I was wondering, as I catch my breath behind the dumpster, after the black van passed me._

_We were informing on you, so we could be next-- correct._

_But of course – Gabriel himself was also an informant. They had killed Asher when he became a liability. Being witness to a murder committed by an FBI agent makes one quite a liability. My recording of him meant he could die!_

_And if they ever discovered the file on my phone, I myself could die too ! Did the FBI already know it was on my phone!? But if so, they’d know I hadn’t done anything with it for awhile. It had already been weeks._

_I thought about deleting it. A lmost did. But I realized: I’ d never forgive myself if I did that._

_“That bitch” Michaela,_ _she cared about you, even if she won’t admit it. She got info on your case via her lawyer. She was the one who learned that the FBI was pursuing capital punishment. I’d forgive her if I were you._

 _I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t bring myself to use the recording, nor could I bring myself to commit to_ _not_ _using it, by deleting it. If I used it, I’d be putting myself at risk. And Oliver. And I’d be possibly indirectly killing Gabriel. Could I really be okay with that? But I could I really be okay with not trying to help you if I could?_

_I could rope in Michaela, bring her with me. She’d be a literal life vest. The FBI could kill me and Oliver, but they needed at least one star witness – their case was embarrassingly reliant on witness testimony._

_But could she bear having been involved if it led to Gabriel’s death? Could I bear involving her, knowing that?_

_So I was paralyzed. Gabriel was oh so helpful though..  
_

_The useless tool came to our house again, to blackmail us. That hypocrite, he’d tell you we were “snitching” if we didn’t tell him how exactly his father dearest was brutally murdered. So infuriatingly cocky, he didn’t seem to realize what I meant when I said “we don’t have to fight him. We just have to tell the FBI what he said.” Death threats don’t work if the receiver is too fucking stupid to catch your drift. He even managed to turn Michaela against him. I could see it, she hated him too. Welcome to the club, Michaela! Gabriel is a genius after all -- at shooting himself in the foot. I might have never had the courage to do what I had already decided was right if he hadn't worked so well at convincing me he was worth less than nothing._

_That’s when I made my decision, as I thought about how Gabriel just watched as Asher died. He was a bystander, and he did nothing. He wasn’t innocent, he was complicit! He probably was thinking “at least I’ll get Michaela back if Asher dies”. That’s what I told myself. He basically murdered Asher by not acting, I told myself._

_I needed to tell myself that, so that I could do what I needed to. I told you loud and clear that day: I’d never be able to live with myself if they killed you, and I wasted my chance to help. So I needed to help you. And for that, I needed to be okay with basically killing Gabriel. And, I realized suddenly, I was_ _._

_Gabriel was not some innocent. But his mother would be devastated. As would his girlfriend. Not to mention Michaela. It's not like I didn't care about that. I did.A lot. But I was willing to accept that, I realized, not without being horrified at myself._

_I had tried, I really did. To consider the possibility that I didn't need to do this. I had tried to agree with Oli when he told me I didn’t owe you anything. Maybe a lot of stuff was really your fault – we agree on that. But I couldn’t get myself to be okay with it. I just couldn’t. I did owe you, but that’s not why. It wasn’t out of debt, it was because I couldn't bear the idea of you dying from my testimony._

_Because your life was worth infinitely more than Gabriel’s. That’s not my place to decide that, morally. But, in reality, it was my choice to make. I chose you._

_Of course, you saw it differently. Is this what you taught me – throwing innocents under the bus?_

_I gotta be real, even punishing: probably. You’ve done that, plenty. (you’ve atoned too, don’t forget.) It took you little time after that to throw us under the bus, for fucking Gabriel. Who met you in the first place to inform on you._

_And that, Annalise, is how we ended up in the situation that led to “what happened”. That is your fault. But what happened afterward, that’s not your fault. _

_You blame yourself for me being willing to kill someone, sure, I can maybe concede that one. But that’s not what you’re on trial for, not the biggest problem. The biggest problem is that you blame yourself for “ that”._

_Again. say it again._

_**It’s** _

_**Not** _

_**Your** _

_**Fault** _

_“_ _It’s_ _…_ _not… my……… fault”_

_\---_

_**6:25, in the C &G offices** _

Oliver had tried to cover all the variables. He'd trained his net, _PETER_ , to make its predictions based on all the text messages, emails, purchases and a few other time-series-type data that he had managed to gather from cases relevant to this one, variously through legal but … _mostly_ … illegal means. It had been sort of fun getting all that data, probably because of how illegal it was – even if slightly morbid.

 _The boy who cried wolf_ \-- Oliver had still named it PETER _hopefully,_ hopeful that when PETER “cried wolf”, it meant nothing. Oliver preferred to be informed and prepared to act decisively if necessary, but not panicky. Panicking was what Connor usually did, and what Oliver did too when he couldn’t help it. It never made things better.

So Oliver liked to assume the best, which was especially necessary when you lived with Connor who tended to dread the worst whenever it was a question.

 _But maybe Conno_ _r’s approach would be right on_ _this_ _matter,_ _Oliver worried.  
_

 _Almost as if on cue, Oliver’s phone went off again. The caller ID was like an alarm._ _It was the only other person who knew about PETER._

 _If_ _she_ _was calling, it probably meant one thing, everything else considered._ _She would probably also be a “worrier” on this matter, even if she was more rational and less panicky than Connor. But she was still a worrier. After all, she and Connor had to have some things in common, Oliver figured. After all, the father she and Connor shared was quite a huge_ _worrier_ _himself…_

_\---_

_I told Lanford, that’s what you said to Oliver. Which is what made him spill. What he told you – that’s “ that” – and it’s not your fault._

_I told Lanford, yep, you were right, Sherlock. I was the one who told him you and Wes were fucking Michaela didn’t say shit, I did – stop blaming her. Blame me. Hate me, call me a bitch if you want, I’m a fucking bitch boy and I’m proud of it. _

_That it was me is basic of course. But I wonder – did you figure out the motive? I was trying to help you, in my twisted, demented way :)._

_You might ask: how was I really helping? I started doubting myself too. What the fuck was I doing?_

_I could hardly see straight. But there was one thing I realized, which seemed crystal clear._

_I, Connor Morgan Walsh … I was poison. _

_Oliver thinks he knows what happened. ~~What he told you…~~ I can’t say in truth I really know what happened. I’ll explain. But this first: if what Oliver said is true, this is why. _

_There can be use to poison. If the fruit comes from a poisonous tree, the prosecution can’t use it. If I was poison, I’ d make sure Lanford’s fruit came from my poisonous tree._

_It was my fault, Annalise. My own fault. Don’t blame yourself. Blame me. _

_Because maybe I look sweet, maybe I’m a sweet red apple, but I’m a poison apple. Eat it , I told Adam Lanford._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all. Let me know what you think! Next chapter should come soon -- though I'll warn you, it's going to be the darkest part of the whole story, probably (and probably with a content warning around the darkest part of it). And yes, in case you forgot I love reviews... :) <3 you all.

**Author's Note:**

> First time posting here -- let me know if I messed anything up. Some typos are intentional (they are "Connor's" and will increase in frequency as we go into heavier material) though. 
> 
> Also I would love (!!) to hear what you think, or if there's any material you really want covered in Connor's remaining "sections". 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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